


An Apostate's Abominable Guide to Kirkwall

by blackSparrow



Series: Roads Across Thedas [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Abominations, Dalish Elves, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 75,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackSparrow/pseuds/blackSparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kazar Surana had thought he'd escaped Templars, Warden duties, and all the drama that came with being a partial abomination when he had fled Ferelden. He was even finding something close to peace among the Dalish. Then, Hawke happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Climbing Sundermount, Bring a Guide

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Dragon Age II sequel to All Roads Lead to Denerim. You may want to read ARLD first, otherwise this will get really confusing. Then again, if you're only interested in DA II, go ahead and give it a shot. Just don't say I didn't warn you. :)
> 
> This one does have a main character, because there was a certain Warden in dire need of a personal redemption arc who ended ARLD heading for Kirkwall. That is a much fresher story than any simple retelling of DA II, don't you think? (Also, it lets me continue playing with one of the most fun characters from ARLD... so that may be an ulterior motive...)
> 
> So, yeah, there will be many Hawke-related shenanigans, but this is about Surana too, so the first part is going to spend some development time outside Kirkwall.
> 
> I've been forced to expand my already shaky use of Elvish. I like to think my usage makes sense, but be warned that many of the phrases I use may not be entirely canon.

His breath misted the air, erupting in clouds that curled and dissipated into the surrounding fog. The atmosphere was thin, hanging wet and cool against his skin. Around him was pale silence, the grey mists revealing and concealing stony outcroppings and twisted foliage on a whim. The only things he could sense with any regularity were the hard crunch of the mountain path underfoot and the sound of his own panting breath against the dead silence.

The red-and-green blur in front of him coalesced, and his single companion emerged from the fog, her tattooed face frowning in concern. Her bright, beaded red hair was the only color that wasn't _brown_ for miles around. "Do you require a rest, _da'lethallin?_ "

Kazar shook his head, even as his traitorous body took advantage of the respite to lean heavily on his staff. Never had he been so glad for the Grand Oak branch's twisted shape, allowing him to grip its spikes and curves despite utter exhaustion.

He had neglected to consider that Meila Mahariel did not take crap from anyone, much less the sixteen-year-old apostate she had essentially designated herself guardian of. What was it about him that made women develop big sister complexes, anyway?

"Come," the archer said, taking his hand to lead him off the path. "We will rest for a few minutes."

Kazar sighed and followed, carefully skirting around what had once been a well of some kind. Meila ducked behind a ruined stone wall, and Kazar trailed after her, his free hand running idly along the cold bricks. He sat down on the end of a tumbled wall, sighing with relief despite his earlier denial. His leg muscles were screaming from the long climb, not to mention the week of constant movement before that. Meila handed him a rejuvenating potion, and he nodded a thanks before downing the awful-tasting concoction. Ugh. Meila's potions were effective, but taste was not something she took into account when making them.

A year ago, Kazar Surana would never have thought he would come to this. Back then, his whole life since age four had been spent locked in a tower, his every move watched by the Templar Order. In a constant, droning loop, he'd been told to hold back, and to behave, and to never, ever give into the demonic voices that promised greater things in his dreams.

He'd never have imagined that Duncan would come and pull him out into the wide world. He could not have predicted the Pride Demon that would attach itself to him like a leech. He could never have guessed that Jowan would turn blood mage. He could never have known that he would fight an archdemon and rip it out of the sky... _twice_.

He certainly would have never guessed that, a couple weeks shy of turning seventeen, he would be climbing some mountain in the Free Marches, following a Dalish elf who had become the closest thing to family he had ever had.

Kazar handed the potion bottle back to Meila, and she tucked it back in her pouch.

"What do you think these are from?" he asked idly, waiting for the potion to work its magic.

"To what do you refer, _da'lethallin_?"

He waved a hand around them. "The ruins. Why are they ruined: battle or time? Or was it just the crazy stupid location?"

Meila's usually stony face flickered with a smile. "Occasionally, it is advantageous to dwell off the main path."

"On top of a _mountain_? Only if you never want any trade ever." His limbs tingled, and the exhaustion seeped out of him. He stood. "Guess that explains why the Dalish would be up here, right?"

"We go wherever the halla lead us," Meila said, turning to head back out of the ruins.

"Yeah, sure. Funny how the halla always pick hidden spots in the middle of nowhere." The path crunched underfoot as they resumed the winding trek up the mountain.

Kazar could not guess what signs Meila was following, exactly. He couldn't see a thing in the mountain fog. But whatever Meila was following, they must have been close. (They better be, after tracking the damned clan across a fricking _sea._ ) She was silently thrumming with excitement, though anyone who knew the stoic elf less than Kazar did wouldn't have noticed.

Yeah, going through several personal revelations and then saving the world tended to bond people together. Even _Alistair_ was tolerable, after that.

It was good to see her smiling in her own Meila way. She'd been morose since leaving Denerim behind, and that amount of _feelings_ made Kazar feel all twitchy and snippy. Yeah, she was missing her bard. Huzzah for her coming out of her shell enough to fall in love with a human—and Kazar was honestly still flabbergasted that Meila had given that up for _him_ —but for a while there, he'd thought he'd have to open up and _talk_ about things, and that was just crossing the line.

No way was he going to be passing out the hugs and condolences. Just... no.

Meila's form blurred with the fog as she pulled ahead again, too excited to wait for her less-physically-oriented counterpart. Not that Meila was _big_ or anything, but her slender form was pure, stubborn muscle. Kazar was small and delicate, even for an elf, and most of his form was made of something a great deal squishier than whatever Meila was.

It was what was inside Kazar's small form that made him dangerous. That was why they were here.

Suddenly, the cold silence that had been their constant companion was broken by a shrill birdcall. Kazar jumped as the sound echoed through the fog around him and was promptly picked up by another on their other side. A third call answered behind them.

Kazar's grip tightened on his staff, and he stopped walking. His heart was racing, and he was a bad scare away from unleashing a fireball into the fog. Those weren't birds... he _knew_ they weren't birds.

For a moment, Kazar missed having Fang around... but no, Meila's stupid wolf had been too dumb to get on the boat back in Ferelden, so it was just the two of them.

Meila stopped walking, and when she cupped her hands to her mouth and released a birdcall of her own, Kazar jumped again. It echoed off the mountain around them and faded back into eerie silence.

Then, shadows moved in the mist, coalescing into three figures. They emerged from the fog from different directions, bows raised warily before them. But as soon as the two groups could see one another clearly, their bows were lowered in shock.

The sandy-haired elf in front of them nearly dropped his jaw to the ground. " _Elgar Mythal..._ Meila?"

And Meila _smiled,_ very near a _smirk_. " _Aneth ara_ , Fenarel."

Kazar cast a look at the other two. One, a woman with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, studied him with her head tilted to one side. She had a pair of wicked-looking daggers strapped to her back. The other, a man with black hair long enough to spill into his face, wore a scowl, but he, too, had at least lowered his bow. Kazar was a little annoyed to note that even the woman was just a little bit taller than he was.

"What are you doing here?" Fenarel said. "Not that it isn't good to see you, _lethallan_."

"I think the question you're searching for," the new female said in a sharp, amused voice, "is what are you doing here, with a _flat-ear_? You're not usually the type to lead strangers straight to our camp."

Kazar bit back an acidic response. He had to be on his best behavior here, because if they turned him out, he had literally nowhere else to go.

"He is the reason I am here, Ineria," Meila said in a calm, steady voice. "I seek an audience with Marethari."

Fenarel exchanged a look with the third elf, and a brief, silent communication passed between them. The darker elf nodded and ran off, disappearing into the fog.

"Well," Ineria said, stowing her bow, "you might as well come the rest of the way with us. You're like to find the camp whether we lead you or not, and we should at least pretend to escort you."

Fenarel nodded, a subtle smirk similar to Meila's teasing his lips. "It is good to have you back, _lethallan_."

The two Dalish turned and started up the mountain path, and Meila tossed Kazar a look that was probably supposed to be encouraging. He wrinkled his nose to show her how much that helped, but nonetheless fell in step behind the other elves.

He found himself nervously dusting his robes off as they walked, and stilled his hands. Sure, he probably looked like a mess after the long journey (and stank a mess, too), but he doubted elves that spent their entire lives eschewing civilization would care. Who knew; maybe they saw road dust as a badge of honor or something?

More to the point, he could not show just how scared he was. They were his only chance to fix himself, and he refused to look like a nervous ninny during their first meeting.

As they walked, the first thing he noticed was the sound up ahead: the crackling of a fire, animal noises, and voices raised in conversation and, in the cases of children, bubbling laughter.

Then, they rounded a fall of rocks and the mist lifted enough to see the camp spread before them. The landships were tucked against the rock faces on either side. A bonfire roared bright in the center of the camp, its light occasionally interrupted by a figure moving in front of it. The smell—the fire, and herbs, and the ever-present scent of halla—kicked an old memory out of hiding. Not just of Zathrian's clan a few months ago, but something far older and far more precious.

That had been happening from time to time, ever since Felicity Amell had taken her little tour through his psyche: a strain of music or a scent would summon a sensation of familiarity, or a faded image of a home he'd never had. It was never clear, and always brief, but he couldn't stop himself from straining after the old memories. They reminded him that he'd had a life before the Circle Tower, and a home, and a family that had loved him.

Not that he'd _ever_ mention _any_ of that aloud. Not even to Meila.

Still, as they walked into camp, Kazar had to control the hitch in his breathing as the familiarity struck that same basic chord in him. What had seemed strange and alien back in Zathrian's camp only felt normal now. As if his brain was saying, yep, this is a Dalish camp. Ho hum.

That thought made him instinctively reach to find out what the _other_ half of his mind was saying, only to flail into that gaping emptiness that throbbed even now. He cursed under his breath. How had he not trained himself out of doing that by now?

There were elves everywhere. Wide-eyed, smiling faces stopped their tasks to watch them pass, and excited chatter followed them, mostly in Trade but occasionally interspersed with Elvish exclamations.

A figure near the fire stepped forward to greet them, and they were met with a smiling, elderly elven woman wearing Keeper robes. " _Da'len, n'arla atisha._ " _Welcome home, child._

" _Halam aravel,_ Keeper." _I've returned._

Both women smiled broadly, and the elder's eyes watered. The elder stepped forward to grasp the younger's arms in obvious welcome.

Kazar noticed that his grip on his staff was turning his knuckles white, and forced his hand to relax. He looked away, turning his attention to studying the crowd of elves gathered around them.

Curious faces surrounded them, swirling facial tattoos sorted into rows while a scattering of clean-faced children shamelessly stared at Kazar. The clan was whispering amongst themselves, positing questions about why Meila was back, and who the small blond elf behind her was. Kazar tuned them out and ended up staring down at his feet.

"I had not expected you to return to us so soon, _da'len_. Are your duties to the Grey Wardens finished?"

"Not finished, Keeper, merely changed." He glanced up to see that both women had turned to look at him. "We have come here seeking your aid."

Keeper Marethari's gaze was unhurried but sharp, taking in all of him with a careful sweep of her eyes. He froze under her scrutiny, unsure whether he should be all humble and pleading (psh, yeah right) or pull out his game face and show her that, yeah, he could out-arrogant the best of the Dalish elves.

Showing a bunch of armed elves his Prideful side? Yeah, that wouldn't end well for anyone.

Too late anyway. Her first impression of him was as a tattered traveler, curled around his staff and frozen like an apprentice caught sneaking around afterhours.

"Welcome," the Keeper said at last, in Trade. She stepped around Meila to address him, her eyes hooded and considering. "I am Keeper Marethari of the Sabrae Clan."

This was the part where he had to make nice. Very aware of the eyes peering at him curiously from all sides, he cleared his throat and pulled some courage from the roiling doubts that filled him. "I'm Kazar. Surana."

"And what brings you to us, child?"

He tamped down a flash of annoyance at being called a 'child'... if she was calling Meila a child, then, yeah, it may not have had much to do with Kazar's age. _Still_ , though. He was nearly _seventeen_. "I need your help with a... delicate matter. Meila says you know some ancient magic that could help me."

"That would depend upon the nature of the problem," Marethari said carefully. "Tell me, what is it that ails you?"

He felt the tips of his ears warm, now _very_ aware of the entire clan's attention. "I think we should probably talk about it in private."

"I see." The Keeper nodded. "Come, then." She beckoned with one graceful hand, and both Wardens followed as she led them away from the fire, evincing an uproar of excited babble from the crowd around them.

They were led to a tent... except that "tent" was not really an accurate description. As they drew closer, Kazar realized that it was actually a large _wagon_ , with a dozen hides connected on top and around it to create canopies, separations, and a walled-off shelter in the back. The combination of wood and hide created a confusing vision of a heavy abode at the same time that the presence of wheels at the bottom of the cart hinted at mobility.

Kazar stopped himself from gawking as the two women ducked under the canopy into the private tent-area at the back of the _aravel_. He followed, and Marethari tugged the hide closed behind him.

The interior of the _aravel_ was dimly lit, pale gray sunlight peeking in through holes in the top and glowing tan through the hide sides of the tent. The semi-circle of ground inside was covered with mats made from grass and leather, giving the interior a sharp, planty smell. Three sides of the interior were bordered by the tent walls, while the fourth was bordered by the back of the wagon itself.

The bed of the wagon was about chest-height for Kazar and featured an extended living area on the wood, complete with bedroll. Kazar leaned his staff against it.

"Have a seat, child," Marethari said soothingly. He turned to see her pulling a set of ceramic cups from a chest tucked under the cart. A quick application of ice then fire magic filled three of them with hot water, and the Keeper sprinkled a few leaves into them.

Meila was already sitting cross-legged on one of the mats on the ground, and Kazar slowly lowered himself down to sit next to her. Marethari knelt in front of them and handed them each a cup, and Kazar stared down into the murky tea dubiously.

"Tell me, _da'len._ " The Keeper said smoothly, turning to Meila. "How was your journey?"

"It was... interesting. I learned much about the ways of the humans."

Kazar brought the tea to his lips, wrinkling his nose at the bitter taste.

"Humans, not _shemlen_?" Marethari said, hiding a smile behind the motion of sipping her own tea.

"I no longer consider all humans as such."

"Go on, _da'len_."

Meila tilted her head thoughtfully. "One cannot hold the entire race responsible for what a few did long ago. It is far better to judge by an individual's actions and intent."

Kazar felt a stab of amusement. Yeah, he'd learned that lesson the hard way, too. Except, instead of hating just _humans_ , Kazar had hated _everyone_.

_That is because no one can match my power and ability. They are unworthy of me._

Kazar growled and shook his head vigorously to clear that thought out. It wasn't his...even though there was no one else in his head anymore.

 _"Da'lethallin_? Are you all right?"

Kazar looked up to find both women looking at him. Meila looked concerned, in that stoic way of hers. Marethari, however, observed him sharply. What had she seen?

He shook his head. "M'fine."

"I think," Marethari said, setting her tea down, "it is time we discuss why you sought me out. Tell me, Kazar Surana... what is this delicate matter you wish for me to help with?"

The mage stared down into his tea, wondering how he could broach this subject without sounding like a menace and a jerk.

Meila, the epitome of emotional unavailability, leaned over and gently put a hand on his shoulder. "Simply begin with the beginning, _da'lethallin._ The Keeper will not judge."

He huffed a disbelieving breath, but that was as good a place to start as any. "Right. Well... I guess it started when I met this demon named Mouse."

"I see." Marethari leaned back and clasped her hands. "And where did you meet this demon?"

"The Fade, where else?" Kazar fidgeted with the teacup. "I didn't know he was a demon at first. He claimed to be another mage, and helped me kill a Rage Demon to get through my Harrowing. I only realized what he was when, afterwards, he asked to leave the Fade with me. I said no, and he... let me go."

"It is unusual for a demon to give up so easily." The Keeper tilted her head and studied him. "I take it you saw this demon again?"

Kazar bobbed his head in the affirmative and set his teacup down on the mat beside him. "In my dreams. He... courted me, I guess would be the word? It was during the middle of the Blight, and we were under a lot of pressure, and I was just looking for _anyone_ who wasn't angry at me for some reason. Shit, I sound like I'm trying to make excuses." His hands were shaking. He reached up to rub his face. "I'm not. I don't... think there's any justification, except that I was too stupid and weak to see him creeping in as I gave him opening after opening."

"Demons are a difficult temptation, even to the strongest of us," Marethari said lightly. "In fact, it is often the strong who find them most alluring, as they take advantage of our strengths as much as our weaknesses."

Kazar scoffed into his hands.

Marethari raised her eyebrows. "If I might ask, what manner of demon do we speak?"

"Pride." He raised his head and took a breath. "He was a Pride Demon. A strong one."

"I cannot help but notice, child, that you speak of him as if he is already gone."

Kazar winced, because that was the issue, wasn't it? "I'll... get to that." She motioned for him to continue, and he went on. "I made a mistake, and made a deal with a different demon to learn blood magic." He watched her face carefully, but she revealed nothing. "Mouse got louder after that, more insistent. I think we started leaking together a little bit. We started having conversations while I was awake, and I found myself agreeing with him more and more often."

"You joined with this demon." It wasn't a question. Marethari's face was a mask, but she didn't kick him out. That was a good thing, right?

Kazar nodded slowly. "I was... an abomination for about two weeks. Luckily, a f-friend of mine knew a blood magic ritual that let a mage go into a particular demon's Fade realm, and I was... extricated."

This finally drew a reaction from the Keeper. Her brow furrowed, and she leaned forward to peer at him intently. "You say that you were separated after becoming a full abomination? I had not heard of such a thing being possible, save by death."

"Well... that's the problem, actually."

"Go on." She was intent, now.

"The demon's gone. At least, the entity that _was_ the demon is gone... dead or kicked back into the Fade, I'm not sure. But it... left pieces behind."

"What pieces?"

"Memories." His hands were shaking again, and he found his shame lowering his voice to a whisper. "Impressions. Thoughts, sometimes. I can usually tell when something comes from the demon, but when I'm upset, or angry, or using my magic... it just surges up, and suddenly I feel like the abomination again." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat to fix it. "I need help. I don't know what I might do if I lose control. I don't want to be an abomination again." He met her eyes earnestly, summoning more honesty than he was really comfortable with. "Please, Keeper, if you know of any way to fix me, I'll do anything to earn it. I swear."

"That is a laudable intent, child," Marethari sighed. "However, I fear there may not be a way to fix your condition."

Kazar slumped, that last light of hope snuffed. He was stuck like this?

"Unfortunately, it seems that a certain portion of your two beings, once joined, are inseparable. I suspect attempting to mend you further would only further fracture you. This demonic presence is part of you, child."

"I don't _want_ it," he hissed in frustration. "And I'm not a _child_!" He snapped his eyes up to see that Marethari's expression had frozen in shock. "I will not be condescended to!"

" _Da'lethallin_!"

The chiding made him bristle, but then he noticed the malevolent red light filling the tent. "Fuck!" He slapped a hand over his own (glowing red) eyes, breathing harshly until his defensive anger settled down.

The two women were silent, so that the only sound in the tent was Kazar's panting breaths and the muffled noises of the camp going about its business outside.

Finally, the Keeper broke the silence. "I see what you mean," her voice said calmly, as if they were discussing the weather. "While it is unfortunately true that I have no means of fixing the broken parts of your soul, perhaps there is another way I might help."

Warily, Kazar lowered his hands, cautiously squinting them open to see that the red glow was gone. Marethari met his gaze with no fear, nor hatred. No, her expression was open and comforting. "How?" he dared.

"You are from a Circle Tower, correct?"

He nodded.

"It is obvious to me that these humans did not properly teach you control. If they had, you would have been better able to defend yourself from the demon's encroachments in the first place."

"Yeah, no arguments there. Their idea of proving you can withstand demons is throwing you at one and killing you if you fail."

The Keeper nodded sagely. "As such, I think I may be able to help you with your control. The demon will never be gone from you, but you may, in time, be able to function without worrying about its emergence."

Kazar dared to feel hope again. "How much time?"

She arched a brow. "This is not a lesson that can be learned overnight, if that is your intention."

He shook his head. He didn't know what his intention was. "However long it takes. I... it's not like I've got anywhere else to go." Meila's hand landed gently on his shoulder.

"Then take your ease with us tonight. We will provide you food, and a bed, and, on the morrow, we will begin."

He swallowed thickly. He hadn't really expected the Keeper to take him. It was like being rescued by Duncan all over again. "Thank you, Keeper."

She reached forward to lay a hand on his arm, and he fought not to twitch at the unfamiliar touch. "This will not be an easy journey, Kazar Surana, but in seeking me out, you have taken the first step of many. In this, I am happy to be your guide."

He nodded, his throat feeling all clogged up. By the Fade, was he _tearing up?_ He dashed those before they could see the light of day, and both women politely looked away, pretending not to see.

Marethari turned to Meila. "It is time, _da'len_ , that I stop keeping you to myself. I suspect the clan is most eager to hear of your journey."

Meila nodded and stood. "Thank you, Keeper." She gave the Keeper a salute and ducked out of the tent. Kazar moved to climb to his feet, but a hand on his arm made him pause.

"I suspect that I should thank you."

He stared at her blankly. "Thank me? Why?"

"Meila Mahariel has always built a shell around herself. It kept her strong and safe, but isolated her as well. It is good to see her emerge from it. And so, thank you.

Kazar nodded slowly, and she let him move away. He picked up his staff and pushed through the hide flap that separated him from the rest of the world.


	2. Respect the Dalish Camp

Stepping out into the misty camp, he spotted Meila's bright hair right away.

She was standing not far from the Keeper's _aravel_ , surrounded by a handful of elves. She was deep in conversation with an older woman, and Kazar once again noted that Meila was _smiling_. All the elves around her seemed to find that more baffling than even Kazar did.

Yeah, maybe Marethari had a point about that.

Kazar watched them for a minute, the older woman smiling fondly at her and Meila nodding and smiling back—even accepting a hug from the elder—and, for a brief moment, the sight _hurt._ Kazar turned away and decided to take a tour of the camp instead of inserting himself into that unwelcome bundle of emotions.

He'd had enough of that crap today to last him a while, anyway.

The fire in the center of the camp burned hot and bright, making everything smell like smoke. But still, it warmed the camp and burned most of the mountain mist out of the air. Kazar could see the large wooden shapes of the _aravels_ all around him, some stacked with barrels and supplies while others had been draped with canvas and hides in a way similar to Marethari's. In front of one _aravel_ was a wooden worktable with an old man and a pair of younger adults working around it. Wooden benches built from tree branches were set around the camp in odd intervals. One near the camp entrance was occupied by an elf who seemed to be doing some sort of maintenance on her bow that was utterly lost on the mage.

A trio of children burst out of the bushes from off to one side, the kids laughing and shouting. One had a strip of cloth in one hand as he ran across the camp, holding his prize high, while the other two gave chase. Kazar had to bite back a smile... he remembered playing games like that with Jowan... sneaking around at night and torturing the poor Tranquils in the stockroom by rearranging their stores.

"Well don't just lurk there, child," a craggy female voice said nearby, and Kazar jumped to realize that one of the figures near the fire was gesturing to him. "Come. Be of use."

Carefully, Kazar took a step toward her, only for her to beckon more insistently. She was veritably ancient, but was dressed in the same functional clothing that the younger non-hunter women seemed to favor. He walked to her side, his step hesitating only a moment as he saw the fogginess of her eyes.

"Do all Dalish call people 'child'?" he asked with some annoyance.

"It is one of the few perks of growing old," she said blithely and thrust a bowl into his arms. It was full of some sort of nut. "The seeds must be removed from the shells." She went on to bend over a platter of tall grasses and to skillfully shuck the grains from the stalks.

Kazar stared down at the bowl in his lap for a moment, then gave a mental shrug and started cracking the nuts open as directed.

A giggle sounded from his other side. "He's been here ten minutes, _hahren_ Vinell. Don't you think it a bit cruel to put him to work already?" A girl about his age with blond pigtails sat down at his other side, holding a cooking pot and peering over at the older elf with a grin. Kazar noticed that her face was clear of the Dalish tattoos.

"He was just standing about," said the elder. "Idle hands make mischief. Busy hands make dinner."

Kazar snorted and cracked open another shell. "Is that a Dalish idiom or something?"

"No," the girl said. "That's a _hahren_ Vinell idiom." She poured a pitcher of water into her cooking pot. "I'm Viriel. Is it true you'll be staying with us?"

"Word gets around fast, huh?"

"Well, we have to figure that's the case if the Keeper didn't send you away straightaway." The girl shrugged and started scooping up some of the nuts Kazar had cracked. "Tell me, are you from a different clan?"

That was... a surprisingly more complicated question than it would have been a year ago. "I grew up among the humans," he hedged.

"Oh, really?" She peered at him. "But your _vallaslin_... is that why it's not in any of the traditional designs? I had assumed your markings were simply from a different clan."

"It's not polite to pry, _da'len_ ," Vinell chided.

"But you cannot see his tattoos, _hahren_. They're fascinating, but not like any of the ones we use."

"The children always get this way as the time of their _vallaslin_ comes near," Vinell said conspiringly. "They think they know everything about the old traditions."

 _Better that audacity of the young than the tyranny of the old_. He clenched his fists reflexively and forced that thought down before it had time to fester.

"Not everything," the girl said cheerfully, unaware of Kazar's mental flailing. "But learning is part of the journey." She used the spit to suspend the pot over the fire.

Kazar didn't have anything to say to that that wasn't a snark, so he bit his tongue and concentrated on cracking his bowl of nuts.

It was meditative, in a way, to engage in a repetitive manual task. Not that it was particularly exciting—it reminded him of doing lines back during his schooling—but there was a simple, steady rhythm to it that soothed the last of his discomfort. The part of him that was still waiting for the Dalish to suddenly grab him and throw him off a cliff faded away as time passed. The elder took the boiling pot off the fire and added her grains and the rest of Kazar's nuts, then set it aside. As she reached for the next task, accompanied by the loud sound of boiling water, Kazar took the opening and slipped away (to much knowing giggling on Viriel's part).

He put some distance between himself and the fire, just so he couldn't be guilted into cooking with the old woman again, and then moved to one of the empty _aravels_ at the edge of the clearing. He glanced around to see if anyone minded him leaning on it, but no one paid any more attention than a curious glance. With a shrug, he settled against the wagon and cast around to see if he could spot Meila.

It took a surprising amount of time. It was unexpected how many members of the clan had bright hair, leathers, and wicked bows strapped to their backs. It took Kazar a few minutes to locate her, now with a cluster of three other hunters who were wearing the same sorts of leathers she was (including, in the case of the other female, the skimpy little midriff-baring number that Dalish seemed so fond of).

As always eerily uncanny about her surroundings, she sensed his eyes on her and sent a glance across the camp at him. He sent her a smirk and waved her silent concern off... the sort of motion that said, "I'm fine. Go play with your friends." She nodded and returned to whatever she had been talking about. Probably hunting... things. Shooting stuff, or whatever.

Kazar stifled a sigh, slumping back against the wagon. All around him, the elves were busy doing things... there never seemed to be an idle hand. Some sewed, while others worked at a mortar and pestle, and one toted a cistern around to fill waterskins. Everyone here obviously had a place in the great turning wheel of the clan. Kazar felt distinctly like an outsider... which was a feeling that did not sit well with him. He was Dalish, wasn't he? He should feel more at home here than he had ever felt at the Circle.

 _It's because of the_ shemlen _. They took me from my home and forced me into subservience. If I'd stayed, I'd be a Keeper by now._

A flicker of red crossed his vision, and he snapped a hand over his eyes until he mastered that unpleasant little thought. Not out in the open, for the Fade's sake!

There was a sound from the back of the wagon, and Kazar startled, the demonic influence dissipating for the moment. He froze, worried that someone had seen something incriminating (Marethari may have understood, but he wouldn't put the rest of the clan above shooting an abomination on sight).

There was a thunk and a mumbled curse, and a young man stumbled around the corner, dragging one foot in the manner of a person who had just tripped. His hair was the same strawberry blond that Kazar's was, and his face, like Viriel's, was also clean of tattoos, despite the fact that he was a couple years older.

The newcomer hopped to a stop and looked up, his green eyes going as round as saucers when he spotted Kazar leaning against the wagon. They stared at one another, frozen in mutual startlement, before the absurdity hit Kazar, and he snorted a laugh.

"Smooth," Kazar deadpanned.

The other elf huffed, ears turning red. "The carts jump out at me, I swear," he said in a Fereldan accent, then knelt down next to Kazar to inspect one of the wagon's wheels.

That piqued Kazar's curiosity. "You're from Ferelden?"

"Denerim." The elf unhooked a prying tool from his belt and reached through the spokes to fiddle with something on the axle. "Name's Pol."

Kazar relaxed back and watched the elf work, glad that there may be someone who understood after all. "I'd introduce myself, but I already did once, and I'm pretty sure the entire camp heard it."

Pol's face twitched in a smile. "That we did. Kazar, right?"

"Yep."

Something made a creaking sound under the cart and Pol jumped back. Kazar watched, amused, as the other elf stared at the wheel as if expecting it to bite him. Then, he crawled back in and started working through the wheel again.

"I knew an elf from Denerim. In the Wardens."

"Yeah? Who? Maybe I knew him."

"Finian Tabris?"

Pol twitched, thwacking his head and right hand against the wheel _hard_ , and Kazar barked a laugh. Pol swiveled to pin him with a wide eyes, idly nursing his injured hand with the other. " _Fin_? A Grey Warden? Are you serious?"

Kazar didn't bother hiding his smirk. "I take it you knew him, then."

"Well, yeah. The guy didn't let you _not_ know him." Pol shook his head in disbelief, still rubbing his hand. "The pickpocket, a Warden. Maker, I can't believe it."

Kazar quirked his head. "Don't you mean ' _Creators_ , I can't believe it'?"

Pol paled, giving Kazar a nervous glance. "Yeah, of course." He turned back to the wheel, picking up his tool again. "Don't tell the Keeper... I'm still trying to break that habit."

Kazar shrugged. "Wouldn't be much point. It'd be the mabari calling the Qunari vicious."

Pol huffed a laugh. "That's a pretty good one."

"Let's just say I've known both a Qunari and a mabari. An interesting fact: they both like cake."

Pol gave him a quizzical look, then his hand slipped and it banged against the spokes again. He hissed a curse and sat back.

"What are you trying to do?" Kazar asked curiously.

"Master Ilen needs to fix a crack in this wheel, but I can't get it off the wagon. One of the nails is stuck."

Kazar bent down to peer into the well behind the wheel. He could see the place where Pol was working: the connection between wheel and axle. It looked like the wood had expanded over one of the nails, giving Pol no leverage to pry it loose.

Kazar pointed a finger, and a quick application of fire to burn off excess gunk, then ice to push the nail out from behind, had the troublesome bit of metal clinking to the dirt in nothing flat.

Pol yelped and _leaped_ back, scrambling away from Kazar like he was an angry bear, and the expression on the elf's face matched. "Yo-you're a mage?!"

Kazar stood up straight, now annoyed. "I would have thought the staff and robes would give it away. How does no one ever notice the staff and robes?"

 _Because they're fools who_ _–_ and he snuffed _that_ thought before it could form, because he did _not_ need to be confirming all the other elf's fears right now.

Pol continued to stare, frozen, and Kazar rolled his eyes and stomped off. His anger was spiking, and he needed somewhere to cool off before he turned into a demonic firefly. It figured that the one person who understood what it was like to be a flat-ear was stuck in the Chantry's "mages bad" mindset.

_He's a sniveling coward._

_I don't need him._

_I don't need anyone. I'm better than all these people._

He was slipping, and he scrabbled mentally after the vestiges of his control. Hard to do, when he was shaking with self-righteous anger.

He retreated up a path that sloped up out of camp. A roll of contempt washed over him, followed by hatred.

They could never hope to understand. Arrogant, bigoted elves. None of them could understand what he'd been through, and how strong it had made him.

He secreted himself in a nook between rocks, out of sight of the camp, and sat down. Then, he leaned back against the rock, closed his eyes, and indulged in a vivid fantasy of burning all the know-it-all Dalish in their tents, bringing their world down with a torrent of lightning and fire.

Then, he would turn his fury on the nearby human city he'd noticed on the way here... clean that hive of scum off the face of Thedas. He would roam around the Free Marches, destroying all the wretched weaklings until none but himself remained to remake the world.

He opened his eyes and smiled at the thought, not even caring that cracks of red light were breaking apart all over his skin. His magic was thrumming through him at the moment, hot and strong and so wickedly _dark_ that it made him yearn to unleash it, just to see what it would do. He was power. They wouldn't understand, and the thought of showing them made him giggle.

He was contemplating doing just that when a nearby voice, light as a wisp, said, "Hello? Is someone there?" and brought him crashing back to reality.

He couldn't be discovered. If they saw him like this, the idiots wouldn't understand, and he had nowhere else to go.

 _Shit_. _Gotta snuff the light..._ _I'm an idiot. I'm weak. I let Jowan die for me._

A young elven woman in robes rounded into view up the path just as Kazar's red glow flickered out, and he sighed in relief.

"Oh, hello." She said, pausing and tilting her head down at him curiously. "What were you doing just now?"

"Nothing," he croaked, because he couldn't think of any way to say 'glowing with demonic magic' that would go over well.

"Oh. I see." She came closer, and Kazar bit back the urge to blast her for insolence. She was a waif of a woman... it would probably snap her in half.

"Do you mind?" he asked through gritted teeth. "I don't really want to chat."

"I don't mind," she said, still peering at him curiously. Shit, was he showing something after all? "Are you all right? You look a little stressed."

"Go _away_ , you nosy twit."

She blinked, finally taking the hint. "Oh. All right then." She actually had the gall to look _hurt_. By the Fade he was going to _burn_ her _face off_ if she didn't leave _this minute_.

She turned and started away, and he released a shaky sigh, only for his breath to hitch as she paused. "Just so you know... you're coming off as awfully ornery just now. Probably should mind that." Then, while Kazar was biting back a scream, she continued on down the path to camp.

Kazar's world went red, and the demonic power pulsed through him. He needed to destroy something... _anything_... to make a mark on this infantile, unworthy world.

With a hiss, he sprang to his feet and tore up the mountainside, slinging a thunderbolt at the first bird that took flight as he passed. A rodent moving in the bushes suddenly found its hiding spot ablaze.

It wasn't enough. He needed more.

He paused at a crest in the path: one that brought him in view of the huge, walled city that crouched in the valley below, just teeming with idiots and sycophants and _Templars_. He could burn them all... those stone walls would make an excellent furnace.

Lightning darted up and down his arms, sending an electric thrill through him with each pass. He could feel his connection to the Fade opened wide, pumping demonic magic through him. He flexed his fingers, wondering what would happen if he unleashed it all at the city.

One thought kept him from doing it... one single sliver of sanity, breaking through the haze... if he acted against any actual people, Meila would be forced to take up her bow and hunt him down.

It had been a promise he'd extracted from her on the boat across the Waking Sea. They'd been crammed in the stuffy bottom of a boat for almost a week, both feeling cramped and twitchy, and Kazar's little problem had started acting up particularly badly. In the dark of the night, feeling bleak and defeated, he'd made her promise him—just as he'd done with Alistair months before—that, if he lost control, she would kill him.

Meila was a practical elf. She hadn't even hesitated before agreeing. And she was a deadly huntress... if he ever became her quarry, the hunt wouldn't stop until one of them died.

He didn't want to kill Meila, and that stayed his hand from doing anything _too_ garish. He still needed an outlet, though.

He turned and headed farther up the mountain, encountering a smattering of wildlife that he took very little enjoyment in destroying. _Too small. Too helpless. Unworthy._

Then, he came upon a cave entrance and lurked in the doorway to peek inside. The immediate interior was lit by the glow coming off him, and even that was enough to see the large, eight-legged forms slowly moving around the walls and ceiling. There was webbing everywhere, and he summoned a gout of flame to burn through a larger web right next to the door... to much chittering and clacking from deeper in the cave.

Something moved to his left, and a spider the size of a mabari crept into the light of the fire, with the sounds of dozens more approaching from the darkness behind it.

Kazar grinned and unslung his staff from his back.

 _That will do_.


	3. Dalish Elves are Pretentious and Mysticismy

Kazar had never slept well. It had been bad enough being a mage since he was four, learning to fight off whispers in the Fade before learning to read. He'd then become a Grey Warden during the middle of a Blight, which meant he was treated to a nightly serenade of darkspawn song.

But it had been better, lately. His Fade dreams had been undisturbed since Mouse had gone, as if the collective demons of the Fade were afraid to tangle with him now (or perhaps they couldn't tell he was no longer an abomination, but that wasn't a possibility he wanted to entertain). Then, since the archdemon's death, the darkspawn voices had become less like a song and more like a few distant, vague scratches, disorganized and not above a whisper. As easy to ignore as the demons he'd been fighting all his life.

Thus, he was more than a little taken aback to find himself waking restlessly multiple times through the night, each time jolting out of sleep in a cold sweat and with no memory of what had woken him. Once, he even woke the other two elves whose _aravel_ he was sharing by reflexively casting a lightning bolt on waking. It didn't hit either of them, but Pol was jolted awake for the rest of the night, and Terath (the elf who had been with Ineria and Fenarel to greet them) gave him a glare that would have given Knight-Commander Greagoir a run for his money.

And that was saying something, considering Knight-Commander Greagoir was the one who had declared him an abomination back during the Battle of Denerim, and would have carted him off to Aeonar had it not been for the unexpected intervention of a certain bard and a surprisingly-on-his-side ex-Templar-Warden-king.

Suffice to say that Kazar wasn't getting any sleep. By the time the sky peeking through gaps in the ceiling began turning lighter with approaching dawn, Kazar sighed and rolled out of his bedroll. Pol (who was still staring at him like he was rabid) watched him as he grabbed up his staff, slipped on his shoes, and ducked out into the camp.

Some of the clan were up already, because Dalish were apparently _insane_ , and Kazar was careful to skirt all pockets of pre-dawn activity to head to the edge of camp.

He paused as he saw the small herd of white creatures grazing in a clearing just outside the circle of _aravels_. The combination of nearby firelight from the camp's bonfire and the predawn sky lent the halla an ethereal quality, giving the white deer a graceful glow.

He peered at the nearest one with reluctant curiosity, only to have its head jerk up toward him. After a moment's consideration, it ducked its head and shied away. Kazar found himself staring in bafflement as the rest of the herd all seemed to take a few shuffling steps farther from him.

"Are you serious?" he asked the nearest halla incredulously. " _You're_ judging me too?"

"They can tell you're not one of us," said a red-headed woman who came up behind him, toting a bucket. She set it down as she drew up even with him. Her voice was naturally quiet, a whisper on the morning air. "It is difficult for an outsider to earn their trust."

Kazar crossed his arms petulantly. He'd just been rejected by a _deer._ "Kinda like Dalish then."

The woman seemed startled, but a small smile twitched her lips, just for a moment. Kazar instantly and immediately felt better.

"So who are you?"

"My name is Maren. I look after the halla."

Kazar turned his attention back to the animals, looking for signs of tack, or whatever beasts of burden tended to have. There were none; these things looked wild, if unnaturally close to camp. "Like a stable keeper or something?"

"Never." She took up her bucket again, and, as Kazar watched, she sowed its contents—some kind of leaves—around the field among the halla. The animals turned and began grazing at whatever she was spreading. "Halla and the Dalish have a partnership. They guide us in our travels and pull our _aravels_ , and we look after them and make sure Ghilan'nain is honored."

"Ghilan... what?"

"Ghilan'nain, the first of their kind." She glanced up at him. "Sorry, I forget how little you non-Dalish know. She's one of the Creators, once the most beloved of Andruil-"

"That's all I need," Kazar said, before she could launch into whatever great, convoluted backstory the halla goddess had. "I don't need the whole story."

"Oh." And, for a moment, she looked at him _sadly_. It was practically _pity_. Kazar fought down a spike of reflexive Pride. He'd decimated a nest of spiders just last night; he did not need to become... _that_... again so soon.

So, with a huff, he left and headed back to camp. He wondered how long it would take for himself to get a reputation for storming off. Bah, whatever.

Back in camp, more people were up, including a particular red-headed Warden who was currently talking to the craftsman. Kazar needed a friendly face, and beelined for her.

"...a great deal of wear," the older man was saying, handling Meila's bow. "Are you certain you would not simply prefer a new one?"

"It is as you said when you gave it to me, Master Ilen. I am providing it a history."

The old man smiled warmly. "Ah, yes. I'd nearly forgotten." He set the bow gently on his crafting table and bent down to inspect it. "I must say that I'm glad it means so much to you."

"Who knows why," Kazar said, standing beside Meila. "It's a stick with a string tying its ends together."

Master Ilen cast him a curious glance, but Meila tilted her chin up and deadpanned, "That is one more element than your weapon of choice, _da'lethallin._." A beat. "If you wish, perhaps Master Ilen will be persuaded to provide you with one as well."

Kazar couldn't help but crack a laugh. Meila, joking? She was certainly in a good mood. "Are you kidding? This staff was once part of a _sylvan_. Who _rhymed._ No one can top that. No offense, old man."

"None taken," the craftsman said, straightening to give them his full attention. He was neatly put together, with his graying hair pulled back into a braid. His face was as stoic as Meila's usually was... but Kazar had learned to read Meila well enough to detect the spark of amusement in the older man's eyes. "It is nice to meet you, Mr. Surana. How are you settling in?"

Huh. Direct and polite. Kazar decided he didn't mind this guy. "Fine. I mean, both my bunkmates hate me, but I got used to that back at the Circle. So, you know, status quo."

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid Pol still struggles with certain aspects of our philosophy." Ilen bent over Meila's bow to inspect it. "You will find that the rest of us know that the strength required to resist what your kind do is something to be respected, not feared."

Ok, yeah. He liked this guy. But still... "There are some things that probably should be."

Master Ilen paused. "Are you saying that we have reason to fear you, young one?"

Kazar stiffened. "No. Not from me." Meila's hand gently took his wrist and squeezed it comfortingly, because she alone knew what it meant for him to say that.

"Good." The craftsman turned back to the bow.

" _Da'lethallin,_ this is Master Ilen," Meila said. "He's a very talented craftsman."

"Don't flatter, _da'len_ ," the elder said goodnaturedly. "It doesn't suit you."

She smiled. "Really, if you need anything made or repaired, you have but to ask. The clan's resources are yours."

"Very true," Ilen agreed.

Kazar shook his head. "What would I ever need? You're not touching my staff."

"That is understandable," the craftsman said. "But if you need anything else—clothes, tools, jewelry—simply tell me, and I'll see what I can do."

Meila nodded. "It was Master Ilen who taught me how to carve." She touched a string of beads in her hair.

Kazar snorted. "I don't need any jewelry. I'm kind of... you know... a _guy_."

"It is not a matter of male or female, _da'lethallin_ ," she chided gently. "Many of our kind wish to express themselves and their ties to the history of the _elvhen_ through such tokens."

Kazar shook his head, though a bit more gently. "I've already got the only token of expression I need." He tapped the Warden's Oath amulet, still hanging around his neck after all these months. "It's symbolic enough for anyone, I think."

"Ah." She smiled. "Perhaps you have a point."

"Perhaps, nothing."

Master Ilen cleared his throat gently, standing upright. "As good as it has been to meet you, young man... it appears you are being summoned." He nodded his head toward something behind Kazar.

The mage looked around to find that the sun had risen while they were talking, bathing the camp in warm gold. In the morning light, the hunters were gathering together, while others began setting up cooking stations at the fire. Kazar scanned past all that—he was beginning to acclimatize to all the community activity—and spotted the Keeper, standing outside her _aravel_ watching Kazar. When she saw his gaze on her, she smiled and beckoned smoothly with one hand.

Kazar sighed. "It's like being back in school."

"I believe Wynne would say," Meila said, "that one's journey of learning should never end."

"Yeah, well, she was a _teacher_. She would say that." He shook his head, hoping that Marethari's lessons would at least be a little more tolerable than the enchanters' had been at the Circle. Otherwise he was going to be frying more spiders. "Well, wish me luck."

"You don't need it, _da'lethallin_."

"You're no help. You, Ilen. Wish me luck."

Yeah, the craftsman was _definitely_ amused, though doing a laudable job trying to hide it. "Good luck, _da'len_."

"See, Meila? Was that so hard?"

Her answer was to put a hand on his back and shove him a step toward Marethari. Laughing, Kazar went.

Once she saw he was coming, Marethari turned and headed out of the camp, toward the halla herd. Kazar followed, silently hoping she wouldn't make him head back to the Maren woman and listen to the story of Ghilan-whatever after all.

Then, Kazar rounded a curve in the mountainside behind her and stopped cold. Straightening up from picking a bundle of herbs was the girl from on the mountain. She flashed him a bright, chirpy smile, and Kazar wondered whether this day wouldn't end in murder after all.

"Hello again," the younger of the women said cheerfully, even as the Keeper stopped beside her. "You look much better. Yesterday, you were a little cranky. I thought that maybe you had a thorn stuck in your foot, but then I realized that you were wearing shoes, so that couldn't have been it. So, are you feeling better?"

Kazar just blinked at the tumble of words. By the Fade, it was like Felicity Amell, except _more obnoxious_. He hadn't known that was _possible._ "What _are_ you?"

"This is Merrill," Marethari broke in with her slow cadence. "She is my First, what you would call my apprentice. Merrill, this is Kazar. He will be training with us. I take it you two have already met?"

Merrill nodded. "We ran into one another up on Sundermount." She gave him a smile that was so excited and earnest that he was instantly suspicious. "It's nice to meet you properly, Kazar."

" _Da'len_ ," Marethari said in a low voice, turning to Merrill, "what were you doing up on Sundermount?"

Merrill twitched. "Oh, nothing much. Just... you know... enjoying the view. Getting a moment of privacy to... not... um..." She trailed off, looking at Marethari like a guilty puppy, who returned the gaze with steady patience. Merrill took a breath, and then said quickly. "Okay, yes, I was looking at it again."

"Oh, _da'len_ ," Marethari sighed.

"I don't know why you look at me like that! It's a piece of our history... _literally_ a piece of it! Why should we not want to purify it?"

"It is _dangerous_ , _da'len_."

"It's just a shard." Merrill stamped her foot stubbornly. "And understanding it could lead to more answers about our past."

Kazar cleared his throat. "Should I just... go?"

"No, Kazar," the Keeper sighed. "That will not be necessary." To Merrill, she said, "We will discuss this later, Merrill."

The younger woman crossed her arms and pouted. "And in the meantime, you're going to give me the frowny face again. This is why I didn't want to tell you."

Kazar refrained from fidgeting, and Marethari turned away. She started away from the camp, and Kazar followed behind, with Merrill taking up a plodding rear.

They ducked into the treeline, and spent a while of silence just wandering along the slope of the mountain. Kazar bit his tongue around an impatient question about whether nature walks were part of his training, but he held it back. The Keeper was doing him a huge favor.

Kazar had spent most of his life living cloistered in a tower with flat, meticulously clean floors. With that in mind, he liked to think he navigated the forest pretty well.

Which is why the three trips and one full-faced tumble he had during the short trek were entirely justified, and Merrill had no right to stifle a giggle behind her fist.

Finally, Marethari stopped them in a glade. "Here," the Keeper sighed. She stood in the middle of the clearing and turned back to the two younger mages. "Tell me, Kazar. What do you see?"

"Um..." He looked around the clearing. There was a slight slope to the ground... scraggly mountain trees, rocks... He snuck a glance at Merrill, in case there was something he was missing here. She was stifling a giggle. Again. His Pride spiked, but he looked away and bit it back. "Rocks?"

"Indeed there are," Marethari said. "What else?"

"Trees?" She continued looking at him expectantly. "Rocks and trees. Trees and rocks. That's what I see."

She hummed thoughtfully. "And Merrill?"

"The mountains," the First said immediately. She smiled brightly at Kazar, then waved a hand outward. Belatedly, Kazar realized that he could see the mountain range between the breaks in the trees around the clearing. It stretched forever. "We are part of it. See, the rocks at our feet are part of the same range as the mountains in the distance. It's all one."

He stared at her, then turned to look incredulously at Marethari, wondering if she was going to call her apprentice on that pretentious crap. The Keeper was smiling at Kazar.

"You can't be serious."

"There is an old idiom, I believe," Marethari said gently, "even present among the _shemlen_ , about being unable to see the forest through the trees?"

"Oh, I've heard that one," Merrill chirruped.

Kazar's hackles went up. "And how does this teach me how to control my magic, exactly?"

"It is about embracing the larger picture, child, as well as one's place in it." She moved to stand next to a thin twisted sapling that sprang from the ground in the middle of the clearing. "Hand me your staff."

Still confused and a fighting the urge to throw his hands in the air and say 'fuck it' to this whole thing, he unslung his staff from his back and gave it to the Keeper. She planted the end of it in the ground, twisting and digging it in until it stood beside the sapling.

"What are these?" the Keeper asked.

"They're a stick and a tree?"

"Again, you focus on insignificant details. Open your mind." She looked at him and waited for him to respond. It was like being back with his teachers at the Circle, all right. Except with more dirt.

She wouldn't stop _looking_ at him like that until he got it, so he sighed and tried to grasp after what she was going for. He stared at the pair: one sylvanwood staff and one tree. He had no idea what kind of tree, if that's what she was looking for. It was a tree. A small one... about as tall as the staff.

He squinted and took a step back, and then it clicked. If you squinted and tilted your head, they both looked the same. If he was an overly mystical elder trying to drive a metaphor in...? "They're both trees?"

"Yes." She placed a hand on each tree... erm... the tree and the stick. "Magekind are like these trees. We stand tall, defiant, daring the demons of wind and weather to fell us." She moved away, coming to stand beside Kazar and Merrill. Then, as Kazar watched, she magically raised a scattering of stones off the ground in front of them and hurled them at the sticks.

The staff immediately went toppling away, to Kazar's irritated, "Hey! Be careful!" The actual tree, of course, was fine, and just had a few extra dents in its bark.

Kazar crossed his arms and looked irritably at the Keeper, even as Merrill moved to retrieve the fallen staff.

"What was the difference between them, child?"

"Uh, one wasn't a real tree?"

"But what did it lack that the tree has?"

Merrill handed him his staff back, and he glared at both of them, feeling his Pride start prickling again.

Marethari _looked_ at him again, seeing far deeper than he would have wanted anyone to see. Then, she turned and waved a hand over the ground in front of them. "Here is the difference, _da'len_." The earth under them shifted, and a series of roots slowly pulled out of the ground... first one thin tendril, then another. Soon the entire radius around the scraggly little sapling was full of twisted, woody curls.

"Roots?" he said, irritation slipping away as more and more curls slipped out of the ground.

"Roots," she repeated, and the ground settled.

Kazar walked slowly around the tree. The ring of curled wooden tendrils was eerily beautiful. It was like a mat of briars, but without the thorns, and with that tree still standing proud and tall in the middle.

"Like a tree," Marethari said, "a mage must learn to extend beyond oneself. To become a part of his environment, and in doing so take part of his environment into himself. He must be steadfast and strong, but also open and aware of the universe as it is, has been, and will be."

Kazar looked up from the roots, but couldn't muster much cynicism after that display. "Are we still talking about the tree?"

"It is a metaphor, child," the Keeper said, with just a hint of playfulness. "Think upon it, then tell me."


	4. Watch your Step on the Slopes

Five days into their stay at the Dalish camp, Kazar managed to wheedle his way into a hunting party with Meila. They'd apparently had a pretty good couple days of hunting, so they let him tag along, despite how he bogged them down.

And he did bog them down—no risks of his little Pride problem popping up about that. Meila and the other two hunters danced through the trees, while he had to pick his way over roots and around brush. That was, when he wasn't skidding down an unexpected slope.

At least the other Dalish didn't seem to mind. Ineria even commented how he was at least 'better than Pol was at first.' That actually helped a bit.

Whatever. He could handle it, if it meant he could spend some time with someone who actually _knew_ him.

Even if she did suffer from some compulsion to turn it into a lesson on their shared heritage.

"...and so Dirthamen entrusted each kind of living creature with a secret," she said, idly picking low-hanging green fruits off trees while Kazar scrambled to keep up. Technically, they were tracking a bear, so today's lecture was about why bears were sacred to the God of Secrets. "But all the animals betrayed him, save one. While the birds sold their secret for gold, and the foxes theirs for wings, and the hares shouted theirs throughout the woodlands, the bears remained silent, and kept their secret in their dens where none could stumble upon it."

"Wait, go back. Foxes had wings?" Kazar clambered over a trunk that the others easily vaulted, because it was either find something interesting in this or bash his head repeatedly against a tree.

"They did," Fenarel said derisively from the front of the group, staring down at the tracks they were following. "Until Dirthamen took them away for squandering his gift."

Kazar couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"It can't be any worse than the _shemlen_ tales," Ineria said. She walked about even with Meila, but kept glancing back at him with thinly veiled amusement. "Don't they lock up their Keepers so no one learns anything from them at all?"

"Oh, trust me, Circle 'Keepers' are really good at learning and teaching, but only among themselves. No one else listens to a word a mage says."

"And that is a failing of theirs, not ours," Fenarel said sharply. "I do not see why you cling to their ways, flat-ear."

"There is some good in it," Meila said thoughtfully. They turned up a game trail that doubled back toward the camp. At least... Kazar thought it did. He was actually pretty lost. "Many of their philosophies are surprisingly compassionate."

Fenarel stopped to turn and stare at Meila, and the rest stopped with him. Kazar welcomed the break. "You cannot be serious, _lethallan._ These are the same philosophies that bid them march on the Dales!"

"We cannot blame the current generation for what their ancestors did, Fenarel." At his increasingly incredulous expression, her chin tilted up stubbornly. "I am not saying that we should give up the old ways, only that there are things to be learned from the humans."

Fenarel just stared between the two Wardens with his mouth gaping. Ineria made a snorting, hissing sound that Kazar realized was a suppressed laugh.

"Character development," Kazar said dryly. "On huge sweeping world-saving adventures? It just kinda happens."

Fenarel _stared_ , and Ineria cracked a laugh. "Oh Creators... your _face,_ _lethallin_!"

Meila blithely stepped ahead and took up the bear's trail. "Even so, _da'lethallin_ , it so happens that Dirthamen did take the foxes' wings, and the hares' voices, and the birds' gold."

"He can just do that?"

"He's a Creator," Fenarel said in a near sulk. "He can do whatever he pleases." The four of them resumed their woodland trek.

"But if the animals all told their secrets, what secrets did they _tell_?"

"It is best not to guess too much," Ineria said. "It's a great disservice to Dirthamen to guess his secrets when he can no longer intervene to deny them."

"Ah, right. The whole 'Dread Wolf locking all the gods in their own realm' thing."

"That is correct, _da'lethallin._ " Meila practically _beamed_ at him. "Fen'Harel made it so that neither the Creators nor the Forgotten Ones could act upon the world."

Kazar turned a smirk back at the other male of the group. "Does that mean you're named after the trickster god?"

Fenarel met his look with an even glare of his own. Kazar had been dealing with Meila for months; he was perfectly capable of meeting it.

What he failed to consider was that doing so twisted his head back at an awkward angle, and, not paying attention to his path, he promptly stepped on a strangely angled rock and slipped. He toppled sideways and rolled down the hill for a second before a friendly tree stopped his momentum.

Ineria made that snorting-hissing sound again.

"Ow."

" _Da'lethallin_ , are you all right?" Meila helped untangle him from his unflattering heap while Fenarel retrieved his staff and brought it over to him.

"You know what I think your problem is?" Ineria said with some amusement. "Your feet. You keep them wrapped up in cloth like that and you're bound to slip."

"What, you mean my _shoes_?" Kazar stood and took his staff back with little fanfare. He glanced down to note that all his companions, including Meila, were barefoot, just like the rest of the Dalish. Bare feet was apparently a thing here. "I like my shoes. They keep me from cutting my feet open and bleeding to death."

"They also mean you cannot feel where you're going," Ineria said with a shrug. "I couldn't do it."

Fenarel started back on the trail, and the rest of them fell behind.

"What do you mean, 'feel where you're going'? Is that some sort of Dalish mystical crap?"

"No, it's fact," Ineria said with a smirk. " _Elvhen_ feet are sensitive. It helps us learn a lot about our environment... and helps us move quietly as well." She nodded back at the place where he'd fallen. "I suspect if you'd been barefoot, you wouldn't have slipped back there."

Kazar snorted incredulously. Yeah, like he was going to walk barefoot through the fricking _forest._ There were pinecones and thistles and all sorts of awful things on the ground that he had _no_ intention of _ever_ putting bare skin to, thank-you-very-much.

They resumed their tracking in silence. They broke out into a clearing, and Fenarel saw something that made him frown and crouch down to inspect the ground.

"What is it, _lethallin_?" Meila asked, moving to crouch beside him. "Ah."

"Blood," Fenarel said. He swiped a finger through the dirt, which Kazar guessed might have been stained with something dark, maybe. "About a day old. She was injured."

"She?" Kazar asked. "You mean the _bear_?"

"I don't see signs of a struggle," Ineria said, looking around them. "What would have attacked her?"

"Of more concern," Meila said, "is that something attacked the bear so close to camp." The other two nodded, and Meila explained before Kazar could ask. "None of our hunters would have provoked a bear without great need, and anything that would attack a bear would likely see little problem in attacking an elven child."

"I've been noticing a limp in the bear's gait for a while," Fenarel confessed, and Kazar goggled. You could tell that from footprints? "I hadn't thought it was this serious, though."

"Let us keep moving," Meila said, and the party resumed their task, now more somber.

Kazar didn't really relish the thought of tangling with a bear, injured or not. Still, at least he had a trio of Dalish with him. This was what they did... right?

They broke out onto a rocky outcropping with a sheer wall of mountain on one side, and Kazar bit back a yelp of surprise. They'd found the bear, a bulky black shape slumped across the path. Only as the other elves stepped forward did Kazar realize that the bear wasn't moving. It was dead.

The three hunters fearlessly moved in to inspect the dead animal, even while Kazar lingered back.

Meila knelt beside a bloody patch in its side, her frown deepening. "Look at this. I've never seen... what could have made this?"

The other two peered over her shoulder at the wound. "It's definitely a bite..." Fenarel said hesitantly. "But I don't recognize the tooth marks."

"The majority of the tearing is in the deepest part," Meila said. "The largest teeth were in the front... I'm not even seeing any from the back of the jaw. It looks more like mandibles than a proper mouth."

Ineria's eyes scanned the bear's flank. "Too large to be a spider though, isn't it? I didn't think they could get that big."

Fenarel shook his head. "No spider. There's no hint of poison."

"And the bite is too high," Meila said. At the questioning look of the other two, she tapped the top of the wound, near its spine. "Look at the angle. Whatever bit it, it was _taller_ than the bear."

That unsettled all of them, because the bear wasn't exactly small. Kazar, meanwhile, was dumbfounded that the hunters could glean so much from an animal corpse.

Fenarel stood up straight. "We have to find this creature. It's obviously dangerous."

"No," Meila said. "We should tell the Keeper. She may know what we are facing."

"And let the trail go cold?" Fenarel stared at Meila incredulously. " _Lethallan_ , that is not like you at all."

Meila met his gaze with a hard one of her own. "The last time I followed a lead without consulting the Keeper first, Tamlen died." Fenarel twitched as if struck. "We're heading back to camp."

All three of them stepped away from the bear and started away. Then, a hoarse, mewling cry from behind them made all four elves pause.

"What was that?" Kazar asked, shaken by all this talk of bear-killing _things_.

The other three elves didn't look too worried, though. There was a silent exchange of glances. Then, Meila stepped forward, this time passing the bear and heading along the outcropping.

" _Lethallan_ , don't-" Ineria said, and was ignored.

Meila disappeared around a curve in the mountainside, and the three elves stood in frozen silence for a moment. Then, there was a scuffling, scratching sound from where she'd disappeared, and all three surged forward to her aid.

Kazar was last to round the corner, and he had to stop himself from running into Fenarel. As it turned out, there was a shallow cave in the mountainside. And standing in the mouth of said cave was Meila, holding a baby bear.

"So she was heading back to her cub," Fenarel breathed.

Kazar watched the cub wiggle in Meila's arms, a fat, round ball of black fur with ponderous limbs. Its snout, full of needle-like teeth, bit once at Meila's restricting arms, but the elf didn't even flinch. When that didn't work, it gave another wiggle and let out another low cry.

Meila, for her part, seemed fascinated. She watched the creature in her arms like one would an adorable puppy. She managed to shift the moving form around enough to briefly delve into her pack, pulling out one of the fruits she'd picked earlier. The cub latched onto it and devoured the fruit greedily.

"You can't keep it," Kazar said. It should have been obvious, but this was the woman who had let a wild wolf follow them around for several months. "It's a _bear_."

"It has nowhere else to go, _da'lethallin_."

"The flat-ear has a point, though," Fenarel said hesitantly. "We can't very well bring it back to camp. You'd better put it down."

Meila looked up, and she had that set to her jaw that said she was about to get _stubborn_ (and with her, that was saying something). "Its mother is dead. If we leave it here alone, it will die."

"That's the way things are," Ineria said, not unkindly. "It's the natural way of things. We have no right to interfere."

Meila tilted her chin in the way that let anyone who knew her (all three of them) know that this fight was not over. Even so, she gently set the bear cub down. It rolled over once and then scurried away.

"Come on," Fenarel said. "We'd better return to the Keeper." He turned and started back toward camp, and Ineria fell in step lightly behind. Kazar lingered a minute, watching Meila pick her way over. Her face was very still, revealing nothing.

She drew even with him, and Kazar nudged her playfully with his staff. "Just don't give it a name like 'Fang', eh?"

A glint of mischief twinkled in her eyes.


	5. Find a Sanctuary

He couldn't believe he was doing this.

He glanced behind him, just to make sure he hadn't been followed. Yeah right. If any Dalish _were_ lurking in trees, they'd be perfectly capable of hiding from _him_.

Still, seeing no one around made him feel less embarrassed about it. He sighed with relief and turned back around, taking a moment to take in the swiftly-becoming-familiar sight of the circle of roots Marethari had created on that first day. It had been two weeks, and Kazar had found himself sneaking off to this place since then. It was... peaceful. Meditative, even.

Not that he meditated here or anything, though he knew Marethari was hoping he did. Usually, he napped.

Not today, though. Today was special, and he needed a little something more. Carefully, he leaned on his staff and put the toe of one foot to the heel of the other, twisting his feet until first one shoe, then the other, was levered off. Stockings came off with a tug of one hand.

Carefully, he set his bare feet in the grass, and sucked in a breath. It was... cold! There was a damp chill on the ground, and it was strange to feel the flat press of a few blades of grass caught under his soles. He dug his toes into the dirt, marveling at the give of the soil.

There was a simple pleasure in it. He'd never stood barefoot outside as far as he could remember, though it did tap that very old familiar place buried inside him.

Not that he'd admit this to Ineria, or anything. There was a reason he was trying this well away from camp.

Carefully, Kazar picked his way through the grass, keeping a close eye on the ground so he didn't step on anything painful or... unsanitary. Watching didn't work entirely; a few times, he winced as his sensitive soles pressed against a pebble or twig with a sharp edge.

Then, he reached the edge of the circle of roots, and licked his lips. With even more care, he placed a foot on top of one root on the very outside, and the rough tendril gave under his weight. He put his weight on it, and picked another set of roots to use as his next stepping-stone. The roots were surprisingly soft, bending under his feet, even if a few pinched. By carefully picking his path, he soon reached the center of the circle.

He grinned triumphantly, feeling a spike of Pride that he didn't bother to suppress. Then, he sat down at the base of the sapling and took up his usual position of staring out over the mountains. This time, while he did it, he dug his toes into the ground, marveling at the feel of cool, rich soil between them.

Time didn't pass the same way among the Dalish as it did among civilization, where the passing of the hours was marked by the tolling of the Chantry bells. Here, the only set marker was the rising and setting of the sun, with only its slow, steady journey across the sky to fill the hours between.

And so, Kazar couldn't say how long he stayed like that, barefoot and shirking responsibility against a sapling. It felt pretty damn good not to have any expectations thrust upon him. No classes to attend. No enchanters to impress. No Blight.

That one was a big one, there being no Blight.

For quite some time, he marveled in the feeling of freedom the thought brought, right up until he looked up to see Meila standing outside the root circle, watching him with muted amusement.

Bah, right. Life was still happening. "You here to drag me back to camp?"

She shrugged and stepped carefully through the perimeter to his side. "People had wondered where you had gone. The Keeper thought you might be here."

He shrugged in response and looked out over the mountain, and she gracefully sat beside him.

Again, time passed, with nothing to mark it except the slow movement of the sun.

"Do the Dalish do birthdays?"

"Birthdays, _da'lethallin_?"

"Yeah. You know, commemorate the anniversary of your birth. Celebrate the fact that you're alive, mark the passage of time... that sort of thing?"

She leaned sideways against the tree thoughtfully, so that her shoulder brushed his. "Not in that way, I think. We mark the years, to take account of them, but that is not necessarily seen as purpose for celebration. Instead, we mark events. The first solo hunt. The first recitation of the Oath of the Dales. And, of course, the application of one's _vallaslin_."

Kazar raised a hand to his own tattoos.

"That is how we decide whether one is an adult or not," she went on. "Not by an arbitrary number of years, but by whether one is able to withstand the _vallaslin_ with the strength expected of a full-grown Dalish. When one is, it is celebrated for days, and one is finally an adult in the eyes of the clan."

Kazar nodded. "Ah. Okay."

They looked out over the mountains for a time. Then, "Why do you ask, _da'lethallin_?"

"Nothing. It's not important."

"You are in a most somber mood. I would know why."

Kazar shrugged noncommittally.

"Kazar."

She so rarely called him by name that he had to crack a smile and relent. "I'm seventeen today."

"Oh?" She seemed to think that over. "Would you like to celebrate this? If so, I am willing to help."

He shook his head. "It's fine. It's not even a real birthday, anyway. Just a date. Arbitrary, like you said."

Meila nudged him with her shoulder, and he sighed.

"I told you I was brought to the Circle when I was four, right? Of course I didn't have a birthday, and the Templars and enchanters didn't care enough to assign one. So I'd just watch the older mages as they passed gifts and favors back and forth on otherwise normal days. Little signs of appreciation for that person's existence, you know?

"Then, Jowan came along, and he declared that, if I didn't know my birthday, then it might as well be the day I was brought to the Circle." His face cracked into a sad smile at the memory… the preteen Jowan pronouncing with uncharacteristic resolve that Kazar would get a birthday too. "Every year, he brought me something. Never anything big... but still they were the most amazing things to me. One year it was this painted beeswax candle from Orlais. The next it was a little rock that had this beautiful crystal formation inside. Little tokens from outside that I'd never really had a chance to encounter myself, you know?" He leaned back. "I never thought to ask him how he got his hands on all that stuff... the idiot was full of surprises like that." Grief twisted his heart briefly, followed swiftly by guilt, and Kazar beat both down.

They were silent for a time. "So today is the thirteenth year after you were taken from your home and brought to the Circle?"

"I never thought of it like that." Kazar tugged at a root. "I didn't remember anything from before the Tower, so I figured I might as well have _always_ been there. I couldn't really grasp the idea that there was more to life than those rounded walls. Not for me."

"But there is, _da'lethallin_. At least, I hope you have found it so."

"Yeah..." He felt a burning in his eyes, and resolutely blinked it back. "I've never had a... a home. The Circle Tower was never home: it was a cage. And then there were the Wardens, and we were always on the road or waiting for the next chain of events to kick off. And that was fine. I didn't think I needed a home. The way I saw it, _b_ _elonging_ was for fragile sheep who needed a flock to survive."

"That is not so."

"Well yeah, I know that _now_."

Her hand reached over to grasp his. "I would hope, _da'lethallin_ , that you will one day feel comfortable enough among your own people to call this a home."

"They're not my people."

"They could be."

He fell silent, and they watched the sun track across the sky in silence.


	6. Sleep is for the Weak

He jerked upright in the bedroll. Again. His heart raced, and his skin was clammy. A lightning bolt fizzled in his hand, ready to be cast, but he cut off his magic before he could release it at his _aravel_ partners.

Kazar bowed over his knees, gasping for breath while the residual fear faded. He grasped after the memory of what he'd been dreaming, but it faded quickly. Again.

For nearly a month now, he'd done this every night. Every. Single. Night. Dammit, he needed a decent night's sleep!

He growled in frustration and shoved out of his bedroll, then grabbed up his staff. He didn't bother with his shoes, letting the cold shock of his bare feet on the earth shake away the last of the phantoms.

When he ducked outside, the cool mountain air greeted him. The fire was banked low for now, but never out, and he headed toward it. Some nights, he'd stare into it until he felt tired again, and he had every intention of doing that now. He crouched in front of it, gave the fire a little puff of magic to expand it, and resigned himself to staring for an hour or so.

"Restless again, _da'len_?" a gravelly voice said. He glanced up to see _hahren_ Paivel, the clan's resident loremaster and collective stern grandfather. Paivel's white hair shone in the flickering light as he sat down across the fire from Kazar.

"I'm fine," he said reflexively. At least he was pretty much used to being called "child" or " _da'len_ " by the various elders, so he didn't have to shove back his prickling Pride. Much.

"Telling a lie often only makes it less true."

Kazar stifled a roll of the eyes. A font of homebrewed wisdom, was Paivel. "Maybe 'I'm fine' was just more polite than 'none of your business'."

"But that is where you are mistaken, _da'len_. When one of our people suffers, it is all of us who must share the pain."

"I'm not one of you."

Paivel regarded him calmly, taking the sass with a disapproving frown and nothing more. Then, he said, "The Keeper and her First had difficulty sleeping here the first weeks, as well."

That snuffed Kazar's temper before it could really rouse. "What?"

Seeing that he'd caught Kazar's attention, Paivel nodded. "Perhaps, if your dreams bother you, you might consult the Keeper for her advice on how to treat it."

"Do you know why I can't sleep?" He cut himself off before he asked more, because that sounded desperate enough.

"I... cannot say for certain, _da'len_. However, I can posit a guess."

Kazar was _not_ going to ask what. _He was not going to ask_.

Paivel answered him anyway. "Long ago, this mountain was the site of a great battle waged between the Tevinter Imperium and the last free elves of Elvhenan." Paivel leaned in toward the fire, his eyes going distant. "So the tales go: Arlathan, the ancient city of our ancestors, had fallen to the Imperium. The _shemlen_ were spreading across the land like a storm, capturing and enslaving every elf they overtook. The last forces of Elvhenan were chased south, until they crashed against the sea here. It was in these mountains that our ancestors made their final stand."

Kazar found himself leaning forward, rapt despite himself.

"They rallied what forces they could, drew all free elves from the edges of the terrible _shemlen_ empire, from the remaining cities and herders' huts both."

"The ruins," Kazar realized. "Outside the camp. They're from that time, aren't they?"

"Yes. Sundermount was once a place of great importance to our people. Many of our kind lived and went to _Uthenera_ in these hills. That was why the _elvhen_ made their stand here."

"They lost," Kazar whispered. Even he knew enough about elven history to guess that much.

"Not without a fight, _da'len_ ," the elder said fiercely. "Both sides mustered the greatest powers at their command. Great forces of nature roared on both sides, our ancient arcane lore against the demon-wrought ferocity of the Imperium. Alas, the Imperium, with demons and dragons at their call, overwhelmed our ancestors, and the ancient elves perished by the hundreds, when our kind had rarely known death before."

"That's not true, is it? That we were immortal?"

"Who can say?" Paivel peered at him over the flames. "The ancient tales indicate that, at the least, we did not know sickness or age until the _shemlen_ came to our lands. Regardless, the fact is that many died here, on both sides of the battle. In their wake, they left echoes. Wandering spirits and monsters who were summoned to fight a war they cannot know is no longer waged. It is likely those spirits, _da'len_ , which keep you awake at night."

Kazar cast his gaze out along the treeline, as if that would help him spot these demons in the darkness. "Why are we here, then? If there are so many restless forces here, wouldn't it be safer to move on?"

Paivel sighed. "It is only right, perhaps, that you are aware." The elder thought for a moment, seeming to choose his words. "We are here not by the will of the halla, as would usually be our custom. Rather, we came here to fulfill a promise. A promise made during those very times we were just speaking of, in fact, to a force known as _Asha'bellanar_."

He'd heard that word before... Where had... oh. _Oh._ " _Flemeth_?"

Paivel nodded. "That is, I believe, what she is called in certain lands."

"But that was... she's _that old_?" Kazar felt dizzy. He remembered facing her in the Wilds, during the Blight. He remembered the madness that had overtaken him, the sensation of power at becoming an abomination of Pride for the first time. And he remembered demanding she face him properly, and her letting him win.

It had enraged him at the time. Now, with clear eyes, he realized that she had spared him his life.

"It is what the tales passed down the generations say," Paivel said serenely. "Even the most outlandish tales spring from a seed of truth, _da'len_. Thus, we have been bidden wait, and so we wait."

Kazar found himself shivering, the overturned memories of Flemeth unsettling him more than the idea that demons were lurking around the camp. "What are we waiting for, exactly?"

"A message. Only the Keeper knows the nature of it, and that is perhaps for the better."

Kazar nodded, digging his bare toes into the soil. Well, it wasn't like he hadn't known Flemeth would come back to haunt the Wardens' collective hides _somehow._

"I apologize if this distresses you, _da'len_."

"It's fine." He sighed. "Let's just say I've met Flem... _Asha'bellanar_. We didn't part on the best terms."

"I see." His eyebrows rose. "I cannot say I'm surprised to hear that, _da'len_."

Kazar cast the old man a sour look.

"Even so, you need not worry. You are under our protection now. She will not harm one of the People."

"But... I'm not Dalish."

"Aren't you?" Paivel leaned forward and pinned him with that 'lecturing enchanter' look of his. "Tell me, then. What do you believe it means to be Dalish?"

"Part of a Dalish clan. Duh?"

"Not 'duh'. Certainly not." Paivel laced his fingers, and Kazar swore he saw a hint of amusement in the old man's eyes. Imagined, obviously. "I notice that you have been going barefoot increasingly often around camp. Do you know why?"

And what was with the change of subject? "Peer pressure, mostly," Kazar muttered.

"Can you guess why our people often discard our shoes, even on difficult or dangerous terrain?"

Kazar shrugged. "Ineria said it helps us feel the terrain and move quietly."

"That is true, but there is more to it than that. Something which many of the younger of the clan may not be aware of yet."

"This isn't the part where you say 'it helps us keep in touch with the earth' is it?"

Okay, that was _definitely_ amusement. "No, _da'len_. That is not it either, though it is a laudable guess."

"So... what? Why do Dalish go barefoot?"

Paivel sat back, and Kazar could tell by the distant look in his eye that he was going into 'storyteller' mode again. Kazar found he didn't mind it so much, here in the intimate dark of the night. Something about the play of firelight and the gentle, lyrical gravel of the _hahren's_ voice made Kazar pay attention. Or maybe it was the fact that, unlike all the enchanters' lectures back at the Circle, this one was actually relevant to his life. Relatively.

"It began with Andraste's rebellion. Our people, who had been subjugated for a thousand years and forgot what it meant to be a people unto ourselves, heard tales of this strange barbarian queen who dared to defy the Imperium. Emboldened by these tales, slaves from across the empire rose up, led by a man named Shartan. He, more than any other, rallied the _elvhen_ against their captors, gathering anything they could carry and everything they could use against the Imperium to free their kin.

"It is said they fought with little more than sharpened stones and bows made from broken barrels, but Shartan led them as if they bore arms of legend. He spoke fire into their veins and gave all of them—of us—a dream to someday again have a homeland to call our own, where we could be safe and free.

"And so he allied with Andraste and her barbarian forces, and they broke the stranglehold Tevinter had on Thedas. Many elves, including Shartan himself, lost their lives in the victory, but it did not matter. The seed of hope had already been sown, and the _elvhen_ asked only one boon for their aid: a homeland.

"And so it was granted, by Maferath, husband and general to the late Andraste. He provided us with the Dales, a land far to the south of Tevinter, in the unknown wilderness far away from the lands we knew. And as a newly formed nation, fed by hope and the first breath of freedom in a thousand years, all elvenkind stood up and began the Long Walk home."

His voice had dropped to barely a whisper. Kazar found himself leaning forward to hear it.

"So the tale goes: when we left Tevinter, we had nothing. We walked with what we had on our backs. Some walked without shoes, for they had none. Women with infants, the old and infirm—all journeyed as one across the land on foot. And if one could no longer walk, we carried him.

"Many perished along the way. Some tired and died of exhaustion, while others gave up and were left behind. Bandits and wildlife preyed upon many. Some regretted or feared the long road ahead, and turned back to Tevinter. But most of us continued on. And so it was we found the Dales, and for a time, it was home."

Paivel's eyes focused again, turning to regard Kazar gravely. For his part, Kazar found his throat too dry to speak.

"After a few scant centuries of freedom, the Dales, too, fell, this time to an Exalted March from the _shemlen_ Chantry... a perversion of the promises made by their prophetess. Some of our kind fled to the human cities and submitted to the rule of the same Chantry that had driven us from our second homeland, just as the ancestors from Elvhenan had submitted to the empire that had destroyed our first. These elves live in squalor, in the shadows of the _shemlen_ who tolerate them as little better than vermin.

"We, however, took a different path. We walked into the wilderness, and have never stopped walking since. We will not stop until we once again have a place we might call home, and we will keep our history and lore alive until such a time."

He closed his eyes, reciting the last bit with the gravity of an inerrant law. "We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last _elvhen_. Never again shall we submit."

Paivel's voice fell silent, and it left a strange lack in the night air, only filled by the crackling of the fire.

Kazar remembered to breathe, and spoke at little above a whisper. "That's why you don't wear shoes, then. This? It's another Long Walk."

"A longer, harder walk than the first one, at times," Paivel said softly. "But, in the end, it will be worth it."

Kazar turned to stare down at his toes. Soil caked on his soles, and that suddenly seemed monumental.

He had grown up in the Circle Tower, in a structure so regimented it may as well have been a prison. He'd never once stepped outside it in twelve _years_. If anyone knew what it meant to be forced to submit, it was a Circle mage. "Never again," he whispered, wiggling his toes and feeling a spark of Pride that was more controlled than it usually was.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he was surprised to see that Paivel had moved, and now stood over him wearing a soft smile. "See, _da'len_? You do know what it means to be Dalish."


	7. Seriously, Don't Fall off the Mountain

Kazar was having a difficult day. His roommates had kicked him out of the tent in the early hours of the morning (again), and there was a tear in his robes that he'd been forced to submit to Master Ilen for repair. As if asking the craftsman for a favor wasn't embarrassing enough, he only had the one set, so had been forced to borrow a shirt and trousers from the craftsman... which were itchy and uncomfortable in weird places. He _far_ preferred robes, but the only mages in camp were both women, and there was no way he was walking around in women's clothing.

As if that weren't bad enough, he burned himself at breakfast. Actually _burned himself_. He hadn't done that since he was _nine_ , when he mastered the finer points of gauging a safe distance for throwing a fireball.

Meila had whipped up a salve, of course, and now everyone knew he was some bumbling idiot who _burned himself_. Ugh.

Kazar's Pride had been a prickling thing all morning, and he felt balanced on a knife's edge, one subtle tease from lighting up like a demonic firefly.

Marethari could tell, of course. She could always tell when he was having trouble staying calm and humble. She suggested he spend the day in meditation, and he was happy to take the excuse to leave the camp.

An immeasurable stretch of time later, he found himself wandering up Sundermount, dragging his staff idly and deep in a state of contented superiority. He'd lost his shoes at some point, and marveled at the symbolism inherent in that. _Dalish_. A strong, resilient people. A worthy designation.

He found an outcropping in the path that overlooked a broad arc of the mountain range around him, and Kazar planted his staff and settled down to look out. All this was once the domain of the Dalish. Perhaps it could be again.

He smiled, contented, for the moment, to indulge in the dream. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice scrabbled against his awareness, saying that he'd lost control, and that he should pull back before this got dangerous. It made him laugh. Danger? What danger, to embrace such greatness. No danger... _freedom_.

He dangled his feet over the edge of the outcropping, gazing down the long drop below him. Too far a fall to survive, perhaps, but he knew no fear. Pride had nothing to fear from glorying in the risks.

"Kazar? Are you... oh." He glanced over his shoulder to see Merrill standing on the path behind him. "Oh my. That's new."

He should be worried, right? It seemed ridiculous, but that little voice was scrabbling in panic. _She saw me. She knows! She knows!_ He quashed it, because it was silly. Why not let her see him in his true glory?

"Merrill," he said, delighting to hear the demonic dissonance in his voice. It had been so long since he'd used his true voice.

"Are you... um... feeling all right?" She hovered back, tugging on her scarf.

"Better than I have in months." He turned back to look out at the majestic view. "Come, First. Sit."

After a few moments' hesitation, she took a few steps toward him. She crouched down next to him, though seemed to be peering at him more than at the view. "Does the Keeper know that you... um... glow?"

"Of course she does." He glanced at her, and she visibly twitched back at his gaze. It made him smile. "She's trying to 'fix' me." He laughed, because the success of that endeavor spoke for itself.

"How are you broken, exactly?" She asked carefully.

"I'm not. I'm complete. Denying my true magnificence is what makes me broken."

"Well, it would be inconvenient, don't you think? Glowing all the time? You'd never be able to get to sleep at night, because the light is too bright. At least, I wouldn't. Maybe you should... you know, turn it off?"

He scoffed. "Your ideas are small." He turned to her, an idea taking hold. "Would you like to see greater horizons, Merrill? You could."

"No. I think I'm okay. I rather like the horizons I already see."

"You do not know what you turn down." He smiled and turned more fully toward her. "There is no greater sensation than being joined with a being beyond mortal bounds. It is _transcendent_. Would you not like to _transcend_?"

She scooted back a step, toward the edge of the overlook behind her. "No, thank you. I really think you should turn back, now."

He crawled— _prowled_ —after her. "You wish to repair an artifact of Dalish history? I could help you. There is _power_ that you cannot comprehend in such a partnership."

She backed away a bit more, until she hit the edge of the outcropping, and glanced down at the drop behind her. "You should really stop now."

"Stop? I've barely _begun_." He moved forward another step, and she leaned back... and, with a yelp, slipped off the outcropping.

Alarm broke through his Prideful haze, and he snapped forward a burst of rock magic to try and catch her. At the same time, she summoned a tangle of vines, and they lifted her safely back to the landing. It was a near thing, though, and the shock of having nearly _killed her_ finally broke through his Pride.

He skittered away from her, back toward the path, and snapped his eyes shut. _I'm mortal. I'm weak. Jowan died for me. I nearly killed Merrill._

"Kazar?" he heard her take a step toward her.

"Stay back!" he snapped, holding up a hand to halt her while the other rubbed at his forehead (as if that did anything). "Just... give me a minute!"

_I'm mortal. I'm just some dumb kid who was tricked by a demon. I'm weak._

Bit by bit, the Pride faded away, the space left behind filled with self-loathing instead. By the Fade... had he _done_ that? Attempting to tempt _Merrill_? With _what_? He couldn't exactly possess her.

A cracked laugh left him, and he dropped his forehead to the dirt, letting the cool sensation ground him. Yep. Definitely feeling more mortal and stupid now.

"Are you all right?" she asked, still somehow sincere after he'd tried to do _that_. Seriously, what was this girl _made_ of?

He cracked an eye open to peer at her from the ground. She still kept a reasonable distance, at least, but looked more concerned than anything else.

"Seriously?" he managed. "Nothing to say? I nearly killed you."

Merrill shrugged. "But then you tried to save me. You wouldn't really have hurt me, so I wasn't in any real danger."

Kazar huffed into the ground. "And the attempt at demonic temptation? No alarm over that at all?"

"The Keeper says that one should never trust the words uttered by spirits. They are always trying to trick you."

"Yeah. Wish I'd realized that a year ago." He pushed himself up into a sitting position, scowling as dew-softened mud caked his face and clothes. He brushed them off. "Don't tell the Keeper I tried to do that, please? She'll make me do the clan's laundry for a week."

"So what you said just now was true? She's trying to fix you?"

"...yeah." He peered up at her, but saw no judgment in those big green eyes, only curiosity. "As you can see, there's work to do."

"So you're an abomination, then? I wasn't aware... fixing... such things was really possible."

"It's not. I'm not. I mean..." He grit his teeth, because he was not going to start _babbling_. "I'm not... technically... an abomination anymore. The demon's gone. But it wasn't really a clean break."

"Oh."

"Just... 'oh'? I'm part demon, and the only thing you have to say about it is 'oh'?"

She shrugged. "You made a mistake. It happens all the time, especially with mages and spirits. That is why the Keeper says that you can never trust _anything_ in the Fade. It's all a lie, meant to draw you in. You didn't know that."

"But I did!" he spat. No risk of Pride here: his shame burned strong and hot. "All my life, the Circle told me not to trust demons, and I went and learned blood magic, and joined with a Pride Demon, and _broke my soul_ for _power_. Because I was arrogant enough to think that I knew better than a thousand years of mage mistakes!" He slapped the ground, but it was an ineffectual display of force. He'd rather be throwing a fireball, but the only target for his current ire was himself.

Movement in front of him broke his spiral of anger, and he glanced up to see Merrill sitting down, cross-legged, in front of him. When she saw him looking at her, she offered him a gentle smile.

"Why are you still here?" he snapped. "How can you still trust me?"

"If the Keeper thinks you can overcome this, then I believe her. She is very wise."

"She's not right about everything."

"No, she's not." Merrill paused, her eyes darkening (thinking about her shard, most likely). "But I think she's right about you."

He scoffed, but found his internal conflict soothed by that all the same. "How, exactly?"

"I think you can be saved. And I think you're worth saving." He glanced up at her, startled, and she grinned. "If only so that I have someone else who knows what it's like to be the receiver of her disappointed frown."

Despite himself, he found himself kind of smiling. "It _is_ a thing worthy of legend."

She giggled. "Can you imagine, a thousand years from now, the loremasters telling Dalish children about the terrors of disappointing Keeper Marethari? They'd have songs, too, about how she could look at you and turn the proudest warrior into a guilty child!"

Kazar smiled, and the day seemed a bit less difficult.


	8. Time Flies When You're Not Counting It

Weeks turned into months, and those blended together. Kazar spent endless hours with Marethari and her First, learning magical techniques and the ways of the Dales.

His little Pride problem didn't go away—and the Keeper had to remind him many times that it never would—but he learned how to detect the signs of its influence, and he developed ways to clear his mind before it overtook him. It didn't work as often as he liked—he took many trips up to that cave of spiders to work off steam. But he felt safe here; Marethari bore his occasional slips in control with a firm hand and never-ending insistence that he do better next time. Whenever the shame of it overtook him and he stalked off to brood, Merrill would appear and chatter about inconsequentially annoying things, and something about that helped him pull himself back together.

He half expected to wake up one morning to find a Templar hunting party storming the camp, but such a morning never came. He relaxed in stages as months passed with no hints of the Templars leaving their walled city to track him down.

He had to assume that having darkspawn gunk in his veins somehow messed with his phylactery's ability to find him, because Kazar had no doubt that, after his slip in Denerim, if Greagoir could have found him by now, he would have.

Kazar started pitching in more around camp, because simple and repetitive tasks were as good as (and more entertaining than) traditional meditation in keeping his Pride down. Master Ilen was always glad for any help he could provide with his magic, and whoever was on dinner duty would sometimes call him over for a fire or ice spell when they needed a quick fix on a recipe.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he'd go out to the campfire, and Paivel would meet him there in the firelight and tell him tales and legends about the _elvhen_.

He went out on hunts with Meila occasionally, too, and he liked to think that he slowly became a bit less of a burden in the wilderness. He didn't really add anything to the hunts—he didn't have the stealth or tracking skills for that—but he learned how not to stumble over every upturned root, and that was progress enough to make Meila _smile_.

They never did find the monster that had killed that bear; they had tracked it back to a cave near camp, but an investigation of the cave by their best hunters revealed nothing. It seemed that whatever creature had done that had disappeared. That was, until three months later, when a pair of wild goats were found torn in half halfway down the mountain, apparently by the same incisors that had killed the bear. Again, the hunters couldn't find the thing that had done it. Kazar recalled Paivel's tales of great, ancient forces still wandering the mountains, and could only assume this was such a case. Because that was the sort of crap that happened around Wardens.

Meila, meanwhile, frequently left camp alone to tend to her bear cub. Everyone knew about it, but no one stopped her; everyone seemed too amazed that she was indulging in her protective instincts. Whatever Meila had been before the Wardens, Kazar got the impression that this was a far softer, more likeable Meila Mahariel, even among her own kind.

Time went on, and Kazar ceased to be a novelty around the camp. The clan became more ready to share their knowledge and conversations with him, with some (Ineria, Junar) quicker than others (Terath, Harshal). It was most noticeable when they were preparing Variel to take her _vallaslin_ : Kazar's aid was requested in the festivities, while Pol's was not.

That night stuck in his memory... the singing, the recitations, the food... it was an entire process that absolutely breathed of an ancient tradition. And as the Keeper knelt before the girl and applied her _vallaslin_ , tears trailed down more than one stoic Dalish face.

Variel, who was always bright and talkative, had been nervous the entire day. But as she sat before the entire clan and had the marks of the gods—the Creators—inked into her skin in a process that Kazar knew from experience hurt like a bitch... she sat as proud as a queen and as still as a statue, never showing any pain until the process was done. Resilience and resolve. That was what it meant to be an adult among the Dalish.

After that, Kazar sometimes caught Pol casting him jealous looks. It wasn't anything he hadn't endured before (being the Ferelden Circle's prodigy had made certain of that), but it was a Pride risk, as his inner demon purred over the fact that he'd obviously overtaken the other flat-ear in the clan's eyes.

As a result, he avoided Pol as a rule. Fortunately, by that point, he'd been afforded his own little lean-to tent. No one wanted to share with him during his restless nights, especially since he had a habit of being jumpy upon waking, and a jumpy mage was usually a dangerous one. He asked Marethari about the nightmares once, but the Keeper was evasive, and merely said something about increased mental control helping pacify it. As of yet, he saw little evidence to prove that.

He couldn't say when, exactly, he had started to give a damn... it was impossible to pick a point. Maybe it was that time the clan's children followed him around, pestering him to show them his cool magic tricks, or maybe it was the time Master Ilen had walked him around the camp, looking for a place to pitch his new tent... the first space he'd ever had that was entirely his own. Perhaps it was when he could take a long trip out of camp barefoot without tearing his feet open, or when the halla stopped shying away from him, or when everyone started calling him _da'lethallin._ Perhaps it was the grand celebration of their way of life that was the application of Variel's _vallaslin,_ or perhaps it was Marethari's proud, warm smile the first time he referred to the Dalish as "we."

He _cared_. About these people. About the long, hard road their... _his_... ancestors had been forced to walk. For the first time, he felt like he was part of that, and he found, much to his astonishment, that there was joy in the pain of that shared heritage.

It was a strange concept that he spent many hours in his little root-ring shrine pondering on. And perhaps that action, in itself, was what Marethari had been attempting to teach him, all those months ago.


	9. DO NOT USE BLOOD MAGIC

Today's lesson would be herbalism, according to the Keeper, and Merrill was late. There was no way Kazar was suffering through that alone (herbalism had always been, and would always be, one of the most boring subjects on the face of Thedas), so he elected to climb Sundermount to fetch her.

It wasn't like he needed to track her or anything, because she always went up the same path. That was probably for the better: Meila and the other hunters had all tried to teach him how to track, to varying levels of hilarity. It was enough for Kazar that he was getting the hang of moving quietly through the trees. Usually by using his magic to cheat in various ways, but hey, quiet was quiet.

He was practicing that now, using the nature magic in his staff to smooth out the brambles and leaves that fell across the path. He amused himself at this for a while... until he felt a tingle of metallic power on the air that made his blood run cold.

The next moment, his demonic side surged forward as he was inundated with memories of power and glory. Memories from his own lifetime (Flemeth, the bridge at Bownammar) were interspersed with older memories of trouncing lesser beings in the Fade and teaching the arts to mortals (including Jowan). The mountainside around him lit up as he started glowing.

He closed his eyes and breathed, despite the fact that he really wanted to run forward and take the source of blood magic up ahead all for himself. Practice allowed him to separate himself from that wish, and the powerlust faded.

In its wake came a wave of temper. Oh, was he ever _pissed_. Someone was practicing blood magic, and there was only one mage nearby unaccounted for.

Kazar stormed up the mountain, no longer making any attempt to be quiet. He rose over a lip in the path and saw her, hunched over something with a red aura swirling around her.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he snapped, unbidden lightning flickering up his arms as he stomped over to her.

Merrill's head jerked up, her eyes going round, and the blood aura disappeared. "Kazar! Oh... uh, nothing!"

"Bullshit!" Kazar spotted a dagger next to her knee and zapped it with a burst of magic, sending it skidding away.

"Hey!"

"Blood magic?! Are you _kidding_ me?"

Her expression hardened, and she turned back to pick up whatever she had been studying. It appeared to be a piece of glass—the artifact shard, no doubt. She tucked it into her belt pouch and stood stiffly. "I don't think that's any of your business. Marethari sent you, right? All right, let's go." And then she started swiftly down the path, like that was the end of the conversation.

The _Fade_ it was! "Don't turn your back on me!" His Pride surged again, and he bit back a growl of frustration. Again, he had to take a moment to center himself. By the time he did, Merrill was a good forty steps ahead of him. He scurried to catch up.

"Merrill, do you have any idea the forces you're messing with?"

"Of course I do," the First said, a hard note in her voice. "I know what I'm doing, Kazar."

"No, you _don't_." He rushed to get in front of her and whirled to block her path. "They make promises and deals, but it's all _lies_. I thought you _knew_ this!"

"That's why I didn't make any deals," she said simply and stepped smoothly around him.

"What? That doesn't make sense!"

"It was a gift from a friendly spirit."

" _You don't learn blood magic from spirits_!"

"I didn't make any deals." She threw him a sour look over her shoulder. "I'm not stupid."

They were nearing the camp just below, so Kazar lowered his voice, but not his venom. "That's debatable."

"I don't believe this!" They were at the edges of the camp proper now, so Kazar wasn't the only one to witness her throw her hands in the air and turn on him in righteous fury. "How could you say such things to me! I would have thought you, of all people, would understand!"

That one stung. "Yeah, I do," he hissed. "That's why you need to _believe me_ when I say that you're making a huge mistake! Some artifact is not worth your _soul_!"

"My soul is not at stake." She glared, and it was like being glared at by all the angry puppies in the world. "A part of our history is, though I don't know why I expected someone like you to be able to understand that."

He hissed, his Pride surging. "You know nothing!" He knew when he started to show because he saw bows being taken up and trained on him from all corners of the camp. "You're just a naive little girl too busy playing with fire to notice your fingers burning!" He advanced on Merrill, delighting in the alarm he saw in her eyes. "I can show you the true costs of blood magic, girl, and it will give you such horrors that you'll never stop screaming!"

And then Marethari was _there_ , in front of him, shushing him with a soothing cadence. "That is enough, _da'len_. Center yourself." He wavered, reluctant to blast through the Keeper, and she used that. She laid her hands on his shoulders and loomed close, so that all he could see was her. "Control. You are mortal. You are in control."

He repeated those words silently to himself, bowing his head against the Keeper's support even while his mind rebelled. He, the demon, remembered so many silly, foolish mages just like Merrill, including _himself_ , the elf... and that was enough of a double-vision sensation for him to wrest a bit more control from the demon side.

When he finally shook it off and felt normal again, he found himself leaning into the Keeper, his limbs shaking with unsettlement and lingering anger. That, too, he stuffed down. Marethari's hands rubbed soothingly up and down Kazar's arms. That was all that kept him from collapsing, and likely all that kept the other Dalish elves from shooting him right there.

He tried to find a scrap of serenity. Or, failing that, sanity. Yeah, that was doable.

"Now, Merrill," the Keeper's voice said, "what was all that about?"

"I... um..." Her voice was high and tight in panic. _Shit._

"Nothing, Keeper," Kazar mumbled, not sure why. Even so, he mustered enough control to pull away and take a step back. Bowstrings tightened all around, but Meila stood a stolid sentinel behind him, signaling her protection of his abominable ass just as Marethari had. Merrill watched him warily, her eyes wide and terrified of what the clan would do, and Kazar just couldn't throw her under the carriage like that (even if this was _her fault_ ). "I just lost my temper, and my control slipped. I'm sorry _._ "

He knew Marethari well enough now to tell from her piercing gaze that she knew perfectly well he was lying, but she only nodded slowly. "I see. _Da'len_ , perhaps you had best wait for me in my _aravel_. I will speak with you in a minute."

Kazar nodded and did as instructed, keeping his head down as he walked so he didn't have to see the entire clan staring at him. He could feel it though, in the wary hush that had fallen over the clan. He huddled in Marethari's _aravel_ for some time, fully expecting the elves to storm the tent. Outside, there was nothing but dead silence.

That night, Marethari gathered the clan together around the campfire. There, he sat and stared at the flames while Marethari and Meila explained _everything._ Kazar cringed as his greatest shames (blood magic, attacking his friends, Jowan's death, and all) were laid bare before the entire community, and he could practically hear their trust of him, so painstakingly built, shatter.

"He never made any secret to me what had happened," Marethari said calmly. "I saw his genuine wish to atone, and thus I took him under my wing."

"You are certain he is not a demon in disguise, Keeper?" Paivel asked, because no one younger would have dared question her.

"Of that, I am certain," she said with utmost confidence, and Kazar winced as he stared at his toes.

"He made me promise," Meila added, "when we left the Wardens together, that were he ever to succumb, I would kill him. He was sincere in the request, as was I in the vow, and I would not expect any different from any of you should the need arise."

They were uncomfortable with it... he could practically feel their fear and mistrust. But the Dalish were trained to believe in the wisdom of their Keeper, and so they accepted it and slowly dispersed.

Kazar wasn't going to be thrown off the mountain, for now, but calling this clan a "home" was out of the question. He didn't know why that thought hurt so much.


	10. Don't Feed the Varterral

Kazar was sitting near the halla herd a couple days later, watching Maren teach the children about the animals (the deer, at least, did not shy from him the way the elves now did). The herd had wandered a bit farther from camp than it usually did, which meant it was the perfect excuse for Kazar to escape the suspicious eyes of the clan.

He heard someone coming, and glanced sidelong to see the green-clad form of the Keeper's First approaching. When he looked up, she stopped and stood stiffly. "The Keeper sent me," she said. "I'm to bring you back for lessons."

He should really be mad at her... like, royally _pissed._ His ousting was her fault, after all. Yet, he wasn't, really. More... sad. Disappointed. That was weird.

He huffed half-heartedly and turned back to watching the halla.

Merrill lost her stiff posture. She took a few steps closer and fidgeted. Quietly, she asked, "Why didn't you tell the Keeper about... me?"

"I'm not a tattle-tale." Yeah, that was it.

"Oh." Merrill _looked_ at him, her mossy green eyes deep and shining. It made him shift uncomfortably. "I do think it's the right thing to do."

"I'm not having this fight with you." He mustered some sharpness, because _really_. "If you want to justify it, go justify it to Marethari."

Merrill's chin set. "Maybe I will."

Their failure of a conversation was interrupted by a heart-wrenching squeal that made both young mages jump. Kazar clambered to his feet and grabbed his staff from beside him just as the halla erupted into ear-splitting wails.

The herd had wandered near a certain cave... the same one that, months before, the hunters had traced that mysterious bear-killer to, only to come up with nothing for it.

Well, there was certainly something there, now. A carapaced limb the size of an adult tree swept out of the darkness and snatched up another halla, to much crying from the herd.

"Mythal preserve us!" Maren whimpered, and Merrill rushed forward to help her gather the children. Kazar, meanwhile, took a couple steps toward the threat.

It appeared briefly in the sun, a long, thin maw lunging out of the shadows to snap up another halla. The rest of the animals were starting to run, and Kazar saw a few disappear into the forest, but the monster stepped out of its cave and started taking out deer two at a time.

These weren't the actions of a hungry animal looking for sustenance. This was the wild abandon of a creature that was killing to kill. Either in defense of its lair or in sheer bloodlust, they couldn't afford to guess.

Kazar put himself between the monster and the children just as the monster straightened from killing the last of the halla, and Kazar fought down a shiver that was half-fear, half-anticipation.

All told, it was about the size of a dragon, all long, spindly limbs and fearsome edges. Its five (five?!) legs looked as hard as stone, and those legs lifted its body high like a spider's. It had two smaller arms in front that tore the last halla apart as he watched. Most fearsome was the sharp-edged mouth, which appeared to be an implement made solely for cutting and tearing, and could easily chomp a small elf like Kazar in half.

Kazar couldn't tell whether it had eyes on its spindly, craggy form, but he saw it turn toward him, even so. Kazar summoned a fire spell and held it in front of him, ready to shoot as soon as the monster lunged.

Except that it didn't.

The gigantic creature regarded him, standing among the pile of halla corpses and coated in their blood. Kazar barely dared to breathe, because he'd probably only get one shot off before it ate him whole. But he didn't dare shoot first, especially as the monster made no move toward the elves.

He could hear two of the children sniffling behind him, softly hushed by Maren.

Then, one of the monster's long limbs moved... backwards. Slowly, yet with a fearsome grace, it turned and headed back into its cave.

"It's all right, _da'vhen_ ," Marethari's voice said, and Kazar turned around to realize that a number of elves had been drawn from the camp by the noise of the halla, including the Keeper. "It won't hurt us."

"Keeper, what was that?" Kazar asked, wondering if he'd ever be able to release his grip on his staff.

"A creature that even the Keepers thought was only legend." Marethari's eyes lingered on the monster's lair. "A Varterral, a creature fashioned by the Creators to protect the People."

"The halla," Maren said, her soft voice cracked. "It killed all the halla."

"Some fled," Fenarel said, stepping forward with his bow ready. "Keeper, with your leave..."

"Do what you can," Marethari said, and a number of the hunters broke off in different directions.

Maren shook her head, tears flowing down her face. "Even if they find them, they won't be able to coax them back. Not after this."

"Come, _da'len_. Let us get you something to eat." Marethari set a gentle hand to Maren's shoulder, and started to guide her away.

"Wait," Merrill said suddenly. She took a couple steps toward the halla. "I might be able to save some of them."

"That is a laudable intention, Merrill," the Keeper said gently. "However, my own healing arts could not save them, and you've never had much head for the craft."

"Maybe not before..." She took a few more steps toward the pile, and Kazar saw the glint of a dagger come into her hands.

His stomach clenched as he realized what she was going to try. "Merrill, _don't-_ "

Too late. She brought the dagger down on her own hand, and Kazar felt the sudden tug of blood magic on his senses. The demon in him keened in pleasure as the metallic scent filled the air, and he forced himself to look away.

He concentrated on counting his toes and breathing to keep the demon down. From far away, he heard the other elves shouting and crying things at Merrill. He was far more aware of the magic she was trying to infuse into the halla's forms. Their blood sang to him, and he clenched his staff tight.

It didn't work, of course, because blood magic did not mix well with creation magic, and then the magic stopped, and Kazar felt like he could breathe again.

When he had gathered himself enough to pay attention to the world again, he realized that Marethari and Merrill were in an argument that was... honestly, a little vindicating.

"...truly know the risks you take, _da'len_?"

"It is not as bad as you seem to think, Keeper. The spirit is helping me."

"There is always a price, _da'len_. Someday, you will have to pay it."

Merrill had the same stubborn tilt to her head that Meila did. "It is worth it, to bring back a piece of our history that had previously been lost."

"This piece killed Tamlen, Merrill, and nearly killed Meila. It is better that it remain lost, and it is certainly not worth _this_."

"I've made my decision, Keeper."

Marethari sighed and turned away, and, for the first time, she looked _old._ "So be it."

"...Keeper?"

Marethari's gaze rested on Kazar for a moment, and he felt an unexpected pang of guilt. "I am sorry, Merrill. This is a path I cannot condone."

"Wh... what? What are you saying?" Forget Marethari, Merrill looked like a kicked puppy. Who'd then been stabbed and set on fire.

Slowly, Marethari drew herself up, armoring herself in her Keeper-ness before turning back to her First. "You must choose, Merrill. I cannot have you putting the clan in danger. Either you leave this path you are headed down... or you must leave the clan."

Merrill went stark white. "You... you're casting me out? But... but _he_ knows blood magic, and you _took him in_!" She pointed at Kazar, and he was surprised by how much that accusation stung.

"And he has chosen a life free of demons and blood magic both. You, _da'len_ , would embrace it." She paused, and continued more softly. "Please, _da'len_. Forget the Eluvian. Come back to us."

Slowly, her eyes growing wet (at which point Kazar realized he'd never seen the other mage cry, and it was kind of horrible), Merrill shook her head. "I cannot. I'm sorry, Keeper."

"As am I." Marethari sighed. "Come, everyone. We've much to digest. Let us do so in the safety and solitude of our camp." Stiff and serene, the Keeper started away from the scene of carnage, and the rest of the clan slowly trickled behind her.

Kazar found himself surrounded by elves who were now far less hostile; Merrill gleaned all the suspicious looks now. The clan, it seemed, had found a new pariah, and the First's fall from grace was not nearly as vindicating as it should have been.


	11. Do Not Resurrect Any Ancient Evil Witches

Marethari was trying, he had to give her credit. She was certainly _trying_ to remain stoic and serene. And that was about all he could give her credit for, because she was utterly failing.

She didn't show it much to the rest of the clan... her role as Keeper was obviously too ingrained for her to let that slip. But when it was just the two of them, going over the finer points of old magic in her _aravel_ , she grew overly despondent, and would occasionally glance at the spot nearby where Merrill usually sat.

And the First hadn't even left camp yet.

And so, when Marethari sensed the approach of Flemeth's messenger (after learning about magic from her for months on end, he knew better than to ask how), Kazar excused himself and headed up the mountain.

Kazar couldn't say he blamed Merrill for hiding outside camp day-in and day-out. If the clan's glares had been uncomfortable for _him_ , he couldn't imagine what it felt like for Merrill, who had been legitimately one of them.

And was that sympathy? By the Fade, he'd gone soft.

He didn't have to go far before he felt the tingle of blood magic on the air. Even after all that...? Gah, never mind. Expecting Merrill to be logical about this matter was like expecting a halla to suddenly start craving live meat.

He climbed the hill and spotted her bent over the shard again. As soon as she sensed him, she immediately cut off her magic and stood. She turned on him with a cold look. "Oh. It's you."

"Merrill–"

" _Don't_. I'm fixing the artifact, and someone like you is not going to change my mind."

_Someone like me?_ "What about Marethari, then? Don't you care about _her_?"

That got her. She visibly flinched, but then went hot, too. "Don't you dare bring the Keeper into this!"

"She's _heartbroken_. Isn't that enough to drop this shit and pretend to be reasonable, for once?"

"Stop it! You don't understand anything, so just stop it!"

" _I_ don't understand?! I think the problem here is I understand _perfectly_ , and you're still _not listening, you stupid twit!_ " His Pride surged, and he turned away with a hiss as the world went briefly red. They remained in silence for a moment while Kazar pulled himself together.

Once he felt like himself again, he turned back toward her to find her staring down at a rock on the edge of the path.

"She sensed someone coming just now," Kazar said. That had been the reason he sought her out... might as well spit it out. "She's going to send you away with them."

Merrill flinched, but nodded. "That's fine."

"And that's... it? You're just going to accept that?"

"I know what I have to do." She gave him that kicked-puppy glare of hers. "Which is more than I think can be said about you."

_Ouch._ He very consciously did _not_ rise to that. "And Marethari means nothing–"

"Marethari means _everything_. _She_ is the one who taught me to treasure every bit of our legacy that I could! As a Keeper! What I don't understand is why _you_ care about her so much!"

"She's _saving_ my _soul_. Do you seriously think I'm ungrateful enough not to care about her after that?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Was she trying to be _mean_ now? It should have been funny,except it was really only making him angrier _._ "Is that really why you're here? Really? Just for the Keeper?"

"What are you trying to say, exactly?"

"I don't understand how you can be so frustrating!"

" _I'm_ frustrating?!"

"Yes! Admit it! Ever since you learned about it, you've been giving me disapproving looks as bad as hers. You expect me to make the same mistakes you did, but I won't! I know what I'm doing!"

"That's debatable."

"See, that's what I mean! You don't trust me at all! _None of you_ trust me!"

"Maybe I just don't want you to leave!" It came out a lot louder and higher-pitched than he'd intended, and the intensity of it shocked them both into silence. Shit, how could he make that unhappen? Please, let there be a way that didn't just _happen_.

"Should I just... come back later?" an unfamiliar woman's voice asked, and both elves turned.

Four people stood on the path just below them. The woman in front looked at them expectantly, her broad, bare arms crossed in front of her dented steel breastplate. She had a bloodstained halberd strapped to her back (seriously, who used a _halberd?_ ). There was something about her face shape and the way her black hair fell across her shoulders that seemed distantly familiar to Kazar.

Behind her was a mismatched group: a dwarf with a massive crossbow on his back and a waistcoat that showed as much cleavage as Morrigan's witch-of-the-wilds number had; another woman with dark hair, twin daggers, and _more_ cleavage; and fricking _Anders_.

Apparently, Kazar wasn't the only Fereldan apostate hiding in the area.

"Don't stop on my account," the woman in the lead said, her head tilting to the side. "I do so hate to interrupt a good squabble." She had a Fereldan accent. This must be Flemeth's messenger, whatever that meant.

"I'm done," Kazar spat, pointedly turning from Merrill and starting down the path. He shoved past the group, ignoring Anders' curious stare. "Go then, Merrill, if it's that fucking important."

"Well," he heard the dwarf say as he stalked down the path away from them, "that was anti-climactic."

"Probably better that way," Anders' voice said lightly. "I would bet his version of 'climactic' involves lots of pretty explosions."

Luckily he was out of earshot by the time anyone responded. He didn't want to hear any more from any of them. He stomped back into camp nursing his temper, only to spot Marethari standing stiffly by the fire, speaking with a few of the other elders.

She turned a nod to greet him as he pulled up beside her, and answered a question he'd had no intention of voicing. "Her name is Hawke. _Asha'belannar_ saved her life, and she came across the sea to repay that debt. There is something to be admired in that."

Kazar stifled a scoff and crossed his arms. "And she's taking Merrill?"

Marethari closed her eyes. "Yes. She agreed to take Merrill with her, and promised to look after her."

_Good riddance_ , he thought bitterly. He just huffed and glared into the fire, because it, at least, could take his frustration.

The Keeper laid a gentle hand on his arm and squeezed it wordlessly. He sighed and sat down, and _hahren_ Vinell handed him a plate of herbs to start cutting.

He lost himself in the task for a while. It was almost peaceful, until the familiar sound of wings echoed across the mountains, and a shadow swooped over the camp.

Kazar jerked and looked upward, and his blood ran cold. A purple dragon flew overhead... but, somehow, he knew this was no normal high dragon. He was assaulted by the memories, and had to duck his head as both fear and Pride washed over him.

_Grow, and discover, and know yourself. I have no doubt we will meet again._

The sound of wings faded away quickly, but he didn't stop shaking for a long while.

Flemeth was back.


	12. Make Peace (or at Least Something Sellable)

At the time, he expected that to be the last time they saw this "Hawke" woman. Years later, he'd look back on that assumption and _laugh_.

A couple weeks after Merrill left, the outer scouts picked up something interesting: there was a small group of unfamiliar Dalish in the area. Humans, the clan had long since learned to tolerate, because there was no end to the various bands of marauders and refugees wandering the lower slopes of the mountains (to say nothing of the rogue Qunari that had taken up sanctuary in a cave system along the coast... a development that unsettled Kazar to no end, because he'd fought beside Sten long enough to know that Qunari didn't mess around).

But unfamiliar Dalish was a new one, and barely detectable even by their own best scouts. The clan was brimming with both curiosity and concern, and sent out numerous hunting parties throughout the area to see if they could make contact.

Kazar tagged along with Meila as she scouted. He was happy to escape the camp for a couple hours (the whispers going around the clan were now saying that he'd somehow corrupted their precious First, and a little niggling voice in the back of his head wondered if that was true). The two of them were alone, excepting the mabari-sized bear cub that now followed at her heels. Whatever. He'd gotten used to the wolf; he could get used to the bear.

It was almost nostalgic. It reminded him of their journey here, just the two Wardens forging through the wilderness. Kazar recalled that he wouldn't likely be where he was now without her help. It was a humbling thought.

The pair (plus bear) of them worked their way along the craggy coastline in companionable silence, and so they both easily heard a voice raised in an angry scream. They only had to glance at one another once before they were surging forward, the bear lumbering along behind them.

They came out of a clump of trees on top of a ten-foot high ledge looking down over the source of the shout.

The scene was frozen for the moment, and divided neatly on opposite sides of a sandy clearing for ease of comprehension. On one side was a squad of Dalish hunters, armed to the teeth and looking furious; on the other, a small group of humans in ratty clothing. Kazar, oddly, thought he recognized people from both sides, though he wasn't sure where from.

Standing firmly between them, one hand held out toward each party, was Hawke. She still had the dwarf with her. However, instead of her other two companions, she was now accompanied by a red-headed woman in steel armor and a white-haired elf holding a massive greatsword.

"Now hold on just a minute!" Hawke said. "What do you mean by 'they're werewolves?' I can't help but notice the lack of fur and fangs."

"We were werewolves, once," one of the humans said. "But our curse was lifted." To the elves, he said, "We were just as much victims as you were!"

Oh. Now Kazar realized why they all looked so familiar.

Well, shit.

"They attacked our clan!" snapped the leader of the Dalish hunters, who Kazar vaguely recalled seeing amongst Zathrian's clan during the Witherfang debacle. "He and his kind killed our women and children. _This one_ killed my mother!"

The Hawke woman turned a sharp look at the ex-werewolves. "Is that true?"

"Yes... and I'm very sorry..."

"Sorry doesn't bring my mother back!" the hunter screamed and drew a shortsword.

"Now, wait just a minute!" Hawke shouted, leaping out to block the Dalish elf as she lunged. The elf only growled and turned on her, and the battle was joined.

" _Da'lethallin_ ," Meila said, drawing her bow, "we cannot allow harm to befall either side."

Kazar snorted, not seeing how that could fail to happen. Even so, as Meila used her dagger as an anchor to slide down the rock face, Kazar raised his staff and summoned all the nature magic lurking within it. He directed the magic into the ground at the feet of the scuffle between the elves and Hawke's group, and everyone was immediately ensnared in a tangle of vines.

Well, almost everyone. The white-haired elf with Hawke swiveled his head up toward Kazar and growled a low, " _Mage!_ " barely audible above the alarmed shouts his spell had inspired.

Then, the elf started to _sing_. Well, actually, it was more of a glow, but Kazar was abruptly overwhelmed by the humming sensation it emitted... it sounded like home. He stumbled back a step, dazed, even as the other elf appeared to run right through the summoned tangle of roots. By the time Kazar had mastered himself, the glowing elf had bounded up the rock face, gotten a clawed gauntlet on the ledge, and vaulted up onto the overhang beside him.

A greatsword swung straight at his head, and Kazar had the presence of mind to jerk backwards and topple onto his back. Painfully, especially when a cluster of rocks smacked into his back just below his left shoulderblade.

The glowing elf loomed, face twisted in loathing as he raised his sword. The weapon was about the size _he_ was... it would cut through the mage like a knife through cheese.

Yeah, right. Like he would take that lying down.

As the sword came down, he shot out a blast of fire, and the taller elf reeled back as it exploded in his face. Then, still on his back, Kazar dug both hands in the ground and poured his magic into it, creating an earthquake that chattered his teeth, but forced the other elf to his knees. Nearby, he heard the bear cub crying out in alarm, and realized he should probably take the fight away from Meila's not-exactly-tame pet.

He rolled right off the ledge, summoning a tangle of vines to catch him mid-fall and lower him to the ground unharmed. With a low growl, the other elf followed him a bit less gracefully.

The white-haired elf adjusted his grip on his massive sword to charge again, but a cry of "Broody, hold up!" gave him pause.

The elf glanced sideways at the dwarf who had spoken, still holding his sword high. "What?" he grunted.

Warily, Kazar followed his gaze.

His vines had worked... surprisingly well, as they were still holding strong. Most of the Dalish elves were still tangled up, as was the red-headed human and the dwarf, though the red-head was going about cutting up the vines with steady resolve. The dwarf didn't even seem to be trying to escape, despite the fact he was currently suspended upside-down.

Only the human, Hawke, had managed to free herself, and she stood beside the dwarf's hanging form, leaning on her halberd and looking at Kazar with a tilted head. That was... creepy.

Matter-of-factly, the upside-down dwarf said, "I'm pretty sure they're on our side."

"They're Dalish," the white-haired elf growled. "They obviously came to aid their fellows."

Hawke jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Is that why that one is talking them down?"

Sure enough, behind her, Meila was speaking soothingly with the leader of the Dalish hunters. The hunter hissed something back to Meila's soft words, and Meila stiffened. From the looks of it, what peace she could forge would likely only last as long as it took for the hunters to escape the vines.

Kazar glanced at the glowy elf, who was eyeing him suspiciously but had at least reluctantly lowered his sword. With the immediate threat no longer quite as immediate, Kazar decided to be productive.

He headed for the humans, who had been cornered against the cliff the entire time. There were only a handful of them—no Swiftrunner or anyone like that—but he could remember a few of their faces from the Brecilian ruins all the same. Hard to forget the faces of people you saved.

Or killed, but that was a guilt trip for another time.

"I... I remember you," one of the humans said. "You two are the ones that broke Zathrian's curse." Around him, the other human faces lit up in grateful smiles.

"Yeah, and we didn't save your asses just to have a recalcitrant Dalish hit them with arrows." He found himself standing in front of them with his arms crossed, like an enchanter scolding apprentices caught outside their quarters after curfew.

"We were just trying to get away. Make new lives for ourselves."

Okay, yeah. Kazar could understand that. He glanced back at the Dalish hunters again. They were glaring, and he saw one of them trying to wrestle his bow out of the roots.

He sighed and lowered his voice. "Go to the city."

Eyes widened. "What? But we've never... we wouldn't know _how_ to live there."

Oh yeah. Many of these had been born with their curse, in the forest. "Look, Dalish elves are _really_ stubborn. They're not going to stop hunting you, _ever_. Your best bet is to escape into the city where they won't be able to follow. There's one in the valley... go there. Get on a ship. Go to another city. But for the love of Witherfang, _don't_ leave civilization." The humans had nothing but the cloth on their backs... crap. After a moment of deliberation, Kazar took the only thing of monetary value on himself—the Warden's Oath amulet—and handed it to the one who had spoken. "Sell this. Use the money to help pay for food, passage, whatever."

And now the guy was tearing up. Then he _bowed_. "Thank you, sir. We can never repay you for all you've done."

"You can start by not dying. Go."

The humans nodded and scurried off, hopefully to get started on Kazar's words.

"How dare you!?" That was the lead Dalish huntress. "You know what they did, Warden, and you let them _go_?!" She fought against the vines.

Meila said, "They cannot be held accountable for what they did under curse, _lethallan_. I know it will not bring your mother back, but living your life in hatred begets nothing."

"What would you know about it?!"

"Humans killed my father, as well." Wait, _what_? "I held that hatred inside me for a long time. It is not easy, but we can help you."

"I don't _want_ to let it go!"

"Then at least take a rest." The huntress started a protest, but Meila overran her. "Your father asked that I keep an eye out for you. He is worried." The huntress quieted. "Come, my clan's camp is up the mountain. Let us at least draft a message to send him so that he and the rest of your clan knows you are well. We can take care of you for a night, then you can go back to hunting tomorrow."

The hunter glare-pouted, and the others behind her were looking uncertainly among themselves. "Fine," she spat. "But only because we owe you for what you did for our clan, Warden." Meila nodded, and Kazar waved his staff to relax the vines.

Once all the elves had touched down, the Dalish dashed up the mountain and disappeared.

Applause brought both Wardens' attention to the audience of that whole exchange.

Hawke was clapping, a smirk on her face. The red-head and the elf stood at either side of her, while the dwarf sat at her feet... buffing his crossbow?

"That was well-done," Hawke said, "if a little too easy after the vine-restraints bit."

"I thought it was effective," the red-head said. She was peering at Kazar curiously. "Did that elf say you were Grey Wardens?" Her gaze turned to Meila, and she nodded. "Yes, I can see it now. You were among the Wardens at Ostagar."

Hawke snapped her fingers. "Right, I remember. The mage that destroyed all the West Hills training equipment!"

Kazar stiffened. _That_ was a tidbit he'd never thought would come back to haunt him.

"You were at Ostagar?" Meila asked. She moved to stand beside Kazar.

"Who wasn't?" Hawke replied easily, twirling her halberd casually. "All that Taint and betrayal; it was a real party." She stepped forward. "But we haven't met formally. I'm Hawke."

The dwarf chuckled. "Now, don't you think a proper introduction should include your full name?"

"Oh, Maker, no. Hawke. The name is Hawke, and anyone who says different is getting a haft up the arse. The one with the smart mouth here is Varric Tethras."

The dwarf bobbed his head in greeting. "How do you do?" He was pretty good-humored about this whole thing, considering he'd just been hanging upside-down by his ankle. He was still wearing the coat-of-much-chest-hair, but it was easier now to see just how well-tailored his get-up was. He wasn't just a beardless dwarf: he was a _wealthy_ beardless dwarf.

"We've also got Aveline Vallen," Hawke gestured with the halberd toward the other woman, "and Fenris," gesturing toward the elf.

Aveline nodded civilly, stowing her sword in its sheath. She was a tall woman, and every inch of her was solid strength and steel plate. Kazar had seen her kind before... they called themselves _every Templar ever._ At least this Aveline wasn't openly hostile.

The same couldn't be said about Fenris. He was tall too, for an elf. But where Aveline was pure strength, Fenris was all angles and loping sinew. Kazar couldn't figure out why the tattoos on his neck and arms had glowed... nor why the glowing had affected him like that.

Nor did he have any intention of asking. Fenris was eyeing Kazar's staff with narrowed eyes.

"You have a problem?" Kazar snapped.

"You're an apostate," was the growled response.

Hawke tilted her head thoughtfully. "Is he technically an apostate if he's Dalish, and therefore doesn't follow the Chantry?"

Fenris turned to address the woman. "The last Dalish mage we took in was a blood mage. Who's to say this one isn't the same?"

Kazar felt himself tense, suddenly very aware of the mire of demonic _things_ lurking inside him. True, he hadn't used blood magic since the Deep Trenches, but once you used blood magic, it just kind of _stayed_ there. Stuck in your soul. What if they could tell?

Meila's hand fell on his arm.

Hawke sighed theatrically. "Fine. You, solemnly swear you're not a blood mage, and we'll let you go about your business."

He felt a spike of indignance, and that was a quick route to his glowing problem right there. "Why should I prove myself to you?"

"What, haven't you heard of me?" She smirked and put her hands on her hips. "I'm Hawke. I do things. Usually for money, but sometimes for moral fulfillment."

"And so I'm... what, some random encounter for you to prove your loyalties to the Templars? Is that how it works in your mind?"

She opened her mouth, but the dwarf patted her foot. "It's better not to answer that," he advised.

"How is Merrill doing?" Meila asked, before Kazar could tell this Hawke lady just where to shove it.

Hawke holstered her halberd across her back. "She's settling into the Kirkwall Alienage. Apparently, someone got mugged outside her door a couple nights ago. She thought it was exciting."

 _That does sound like her._ No, no. He didn't care.

Fenris crossed his arms and turned to give Hawke a flat look. "You've been visiting her."

"Riiiiight," Hawke said. "You didn't know about that. Forgot that part."

"Hawke..."

"It's fine. It's not like I'm _condoning_ her use of blood magic or anything. And think of it this way: if we've got a maleficar...ish person in Kirkwall, why not where we can keep an eye on her?"

Fenris sighed, but let it go with the air of one who knew the argument was pointless.

Hawke nodded as if his capitulation was her due, then turned her attention back to Meila and Kazar. "Anyway. Thank you, Wardens, for the help. That would have gotten bloody without your aid... not that I couldn't go for a little bloodshed, but it does take some of the fun out of it if the victims are innocent." She shrugged. "So can we get your names, for when Varric writes this in his novelization of my glorious life?"

Kazar had no words. Just... there were no words for this. He looked at Meila helplessly. She met him with a baffled look, but was far more adept at keeping herself composed than he was.

At last, Meila managed a somewhat chilly "You do not need to know that."

"Smarter than our other runaway Warden," Varric said with a smile. At Hawke's curious look, he shrugged. "What? When you're in hiding, you don't tell every refugee in Kirkwall your name." There was a Warden hiding in Kirkwall? "Not that it matters. Anyone who knows anything about the Fifth Blight can peg these two." Varric gave the two of them a friendly smile with a slightly cocked brow. "Am I right, Meila Mahariel and Kazar Surana?"

Kazar released a swear he'd once heard Garott Brosca say.

"Wait, let me get this straight," Hawke said. "You've heard of them, but they haven't heard of me?" She crossed her arms with an exaggerated pout. "I think I'm insulted."

"You're just not famous yet," the dwarf said smoothly. "Have patience. We're working on it."

"So what do you want?" Kazar broke in, before they started... _bantering_ again. "For silence?"

"Don't trust anything he offers," Fenris said quickly under his breath.

Kazar glared at him. "I can _hear_ you."

Fenris' eyes narrowed. "Good."

"We don't need anything for silence," Aveline said firmly. "Right, Hawke?"

Hawke turned her pout on the other woman. "But... but _Aveline_! He's offering me a bribe!"

" _No_ , Hawke."

"But... but _money_!"

"No." Aveline regarded the pair of elves. "As far as I'm concerned, the Dalish are out of our jurisdiction. As long as they don't make a nuisance of themselves or come into Kirkwall, their identities are their own business."

"Besides," Varric added. "They're _Dalish_. I doubt they have money to trade. They'll probably try to barter with rabbit skins or something."

Kazar began to resent that, but then considered that he'd just given away his Warden's Oath amulet... yeah. The dwarf had a point.

"Fine," Hawke relented. "Safe travels, Meila Mahariel and Kazar Surana." She waved her hand in a signal, and the ragtag band started off. "I have a feeling we will meet again."

As they walked away, Kazar muttered, "Why does that sound so ominous?" As he turned to Meila to confirm, he only found that she had already set to climbing the cliff face behind them. She made it look easy, too. With a sigh, Kazar moved to follow, summoning a tangle of roots to help bear him up the incline.

Once at the top, he spotted her kneeling down not far away, cooing at a fretful bear. " _Dar'tisha_ ," she said, telling the bear to be at peace in a language that most people didn't understand, so he didn't see how a bear would. "You are safe, _Da'falon_."

"'Little friend'? You named it 'little friend'?" he asked incredulously as he stopped beside her. She cast him a slight smile, then went back to whispering to the bear. "You do realize that's going to be incredibly ironic in about a year, right?"

"He chose his own name, _da'lethallin_." She stood and turned to him. Yep, she was definitely smiling. "I am not one to deny him that right."

"Uh huh." He stared down at the ever-growing bear cub, who looked up at him with big brown eyes amidst its black fur. "And I suppose the irony is lost on you, then? Pity."

The bear blinked, obviously not understanding a word, and it was almost enough to make Kazar miss talking to Cousland's mabari. Almost.


	13. Remember the Vir Tanadhal

The first one to ask him about it was Harshal.

"So... is it just in there? All the time?" the hunter asked. He and a handful of others were clearing out a group of giant spiders that had wandered too close to camp. Kazar had been loitering, so Marethari had sent him out to help with it. He was never one to turn down a chance to chuck fireballs at monsters.

And so, he was left leaning on his staff, watching the hunters range over the dead spiders for useful bits before asking Kazar to burn the rest. It was then that Harshal, bent over one spider's mandibles while he carefully extracted poison into a small pot, glanced up at him through messy red bangs and asked.

"It's not an 'it'," Kazar said, a little irked. He'd done pretty well not to let it out since Merrill left, but the Dalish never let _anything_ go. If they did, they wouldn't be Dalish. (The hunters from Zathrian's clan were proof of that. They'd spent a single night with the Sabrae clan, and then were gone with the dawn.)

The clan had been warming to him by slow degrees again. It was obvious, however, that they treated him with the wariness one might treat a potentially dangerous animal. Kazar knew that if he ever stepped out of line, he'd be dead by a dozen arrows before he could so much as say, "Just kidding."

Which made the fact that Harshal was talking about it both disconcerting and encouraging.

"If it's not an 'it'," the hunter said impetuously, "then what is it?"

"It's me." Harshal motioned for him to elaborate... which was impressive, since both his hands were tied up in his task. "There's no separate being or anything. I just lose my temper and start to... glow."

"What's it like?"

Ineria, who was cutting up a spider some feet away, glanced over incredulously. "Is that really a line of questioning you want to pursue, love?"

Kazar agreed, but he answered anyway. "It's scary." He found himself staring down at his toes. "I forget that I'm mortal. Kind of want to see everything burn."

"And that's in there even now?"

Now that his attention was drawn to it, yeah. He could feel the demon in him, whispering through his veins. He'd learned to tune it out, but it was always there nonetheless. "Yeah."

"Hm." Harshal turned back to his spider, and they worked in silence.

Then, it was Maren.

"Um, _da'lethallin_?' her voice asked softly from above him.

He looked up from the grouse _hahren_ Vinell had somehow guilted him into defeathering to see the elf hovering over him, huddled over as if trying to curl up into herself. Maren had been listless ever since the incident with the Varterral. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to ask you something. If that's okay."

Uncomfortable, he turned back to his task. "Sure, whatever." You couldn't snap at Maren; it was like snapping at a kicked puppy.

The former halla-keeper nodded to herself and knelt down beside him. Her hands smoothed her skirts nervously.

He let her sit for a couple minutes, concentrating on his task. Finally, when he could no longer take it, he asked, "What did you want to ask me about?"

"The…" she said in a lowered voice. "The demon."

Oh. "What about it, exactly?"

"Could it have saved the halla?"

He dropped the bird and gawked at her. "What?"

She stared down at her hands, still smoothing her skirt. "If you had let it out, could it have saved the halla?"

He shook his head, but not in denial. "It doesn't matter."

She looked up, and he was alarmed to see tears in her eyes. "You don't understand. The halla were our responsibility to protect, just as we are their responsibility to guide. You cannot have a clan without halla." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "And I failed both of them."

Kazar wasn't sure what to say to make her feel better… he'd never been one to give comfort. But now there was a teary person in front of him, and a quick glance around camp revealed no incoming aid.

"Look," he tried, "it's not your fault. None of us could have stood up to that thing."

"Except your demon."

"Maybe?" Kazar turned back to his grouse and started plucking it with a bit more aggression than was perhaps necessary. "But it wouldn't have been an answer. Marethari says the Varterral instinctively avoids hurting elves. But if I'd attacked it, those instincts would probably have been overridden for self-preservation. Even if it could be defeated—and to hear the Keeper tell it, they're damn near immortal—it would have killed elves before it went."

She shook her head. "Losing the halla is no better. They were our partners. Our friends."

"And it sucks that we lost them, I know." Kazar dared to glance at her, and she sniffled. "But my… condition only makes things worse, not better."

"I know… I'm sorry." She wiped her eyes. "I shouldn't have asked."

He shrugged and bowed his head. "You miss them. That's okay, I think, and anyone who says otherwise is an ass."

She cracked a hesitant smile, then stood and left him in peace.

Then, Junar mentioned it.

"No chance you can turn on your glowing thing, is there?" the hunter asked. Kazar was helping clear a spider nest (it was always spiders) in a cave with a handful of hunters. The flames of the burned webs died down quickly, leaving them all in pitch-black.

"You want me to summon my inner demon?" Kazar asked flatly.

"If it would give us some decent light…"

Kazar summoned a tongue of flame to the end of his staff, figuring a makeshift torch was safer than nurturing his Pride. In the flickering light, he saw the playful smirk on the hunter's face. Fenarel thwacked Junar in the back of his head with his bow.

"You've got an awful sense of humor, you know that?" Fenarel said.

The brown-haired elf just shrugged. "Well, if he's got the ability to turn into a raging Pride-monster, might as well be useful about it, right?"

Fenarel shared an eye roll with Kazar, who smirked despite himself. "I think I'll stick with this," the mage waved his lit staff, "if it's all the same to you guys."

"No fun," Junar joked, and Fenarel propelled him forward into the darkness to resume the hunt.

Then, it was Paivel.

This one was in the quiet of the night. Kazar had awakened in a cold sweat—an increasingly rare occurrence, but it still happened from time to time. He'd headed out to the campfire, as usual, wholly prepared to sit alone, just as he'd done ever since the clan had discovered what he was. He snagged a cup and some tea leaves, and then huddled by the fire, using magic to heat the tea.

He'd been there a while, watching the dancing flames, when he heard the familiar step of _hahren_ Paivel. Kazar watched silently, not wanting to jinx it, as the loremaster sat across the fire from him. Once he was seated, the elder elf laced his fingers and regarded Kazar solemnly for a moment.

Then, at barely above a whisper, Paivel said, "Tell me the story."

A dam inside him burst, and it came pouring out, in far greater detail than the version he'd given Marethari initially, as well as the one Meila and the Keeper had told the camp. He told Paivel of the fear of being an apprentice alone during the Harrowing, and the relief he'd felt upon meeting someone willing to help him without recompense. He told of the transcendent feeling of joining for the first time, of feeling incomprehensibly _whole_. And the horror of waking up in the Deep Trenches, knowing you'd hurt your comrades, and the agony of learning that your only childhood friend had sacrificed himself to save a soul that could never actually be saved.

Paivel listened to it all in steady silence, and Kazar kept throwing words at him in hopes that Paivel could somehow absorb them and take them away. By the end of it—telling of Meila giving up everything for _his sake—_ he was near tears, and helpless to stop the rush of words. He spilled how he sometimes felt like the stupidest, most wretched creature on Thedas, and sometimes, he wished Marethari had turned him out, because it seemed like everything he touched turned to ash.

When the flood ceased, he panted quietly in the darkness of the camp, accompanied only by the crackling of the fire.

"Those," Paivel said softly, speaking for the first time that night, "are not words a Pride demon would be able to say, _da'len_."

Kazar rubbed his eyes, _hating_ how his sleeve came away moist, but helpless to stop it. "And yet, I can feel it. It taints my thoughts sometimes, and I'm trying to keep it down but it's so _exhausting_ to be on my guard for it every moment of the day." He cradled his head in his hands. "But I can't relax. Not even a little. Because if it gets out, I might hurt someone."

"And that, _da'len_ , is why Marethari let you stay."

Kazar raised his head to find Paivel regarding him steadily. "You think so?"

"I cannot speak for her... but yes, I believe so. You've made mistakes, as we all do, and you will not cease the attempt to overcome them. There is strength in that."

Kazar didn't feel very strong.

Paivel picked up a stick and prodded the fire to help it catch on a log. "Tell me, _da'len_ , do you remember the _Vir Tanadahl_?"

Kazar nodded uncertainly. He'd first heard it back at Ostagar, when Meila had recited it at Felicity's request. Then, upon arriving here, he'd heard it over and over again.

" _Vir Assan_ ," Paivel prompted.

"Fly straight," Kazar said, "and do not waver." He was trying. Spirits knew, he was trying.

"Good. _Vir Bor'assan?_ "

"Bend but never break." He sat up. He wouldn't break. Not when he knew what he might become otherwise.

Paivel smiled warmly. "Yes. And _Vir Adahlen_?"

Kazar met the _hahren's_ eyes, and he suddenly understood the old man's point. Softly, he recited, "Together we are stronger than one."

Paivel nodded once, then reached around the fire to grasp Kazer's hand. "We will not let you waver, _da'len_. If you find no strength in yourself, then take strength in your clan."

Kazar nodded mutely, because something stuck in his throat made it hard to speak. He cleared it harshly, and Paivel stood up and gave him a moment of privacy.


	14. Never Mess With Hawke

Time passed in a constant procession, marked by the slow, inexorable changing of the seasons. The first snowfall up on Sundermount was a wondrous affair, with the older elves watching the silent flurries while bundled together against the chill in their _aravels_.

Kazar spent most of it outside with the children, delighting at engaging the little rascals in the most dire of snow wars, while they cackled and took advantage of the chance to pelt _him_ with ice for a change. By nightfall, as the clan gathered around the warm campfire, Kazar's cheeks ached from smiling. With Master Ilen's help, he made the _da'vhen_ figurines made of ice, and within a few days they were staging miniature battles of ice figures around camp.

Maren burst into tears and (much to his horror) hugged him when he presented her with an ice figurine of a halla.

It wasn't the same as before, of course. Every time he grew upset, he could see how everyone suddenly grew tense and wary, the hunters reaching for their bows. He lost control in their presence twice more: the first time while fighting giant spiders with the hunters (it was _always fricking spiders_ ), and the second because of _Pol_ and his mage-phobia. Meila and Marethari managed to talk him down, respectively. But his last slip had been weeks ago, now, and it seemed that, when he wasn't in danger of glowing like a demonic firefly, they settled on treating him with the same careful wariness that he'd gotten from his fellow apprentices growing up, back when his temper was a particular problem.

After the snowfall, Kazar felt particularly useful. His magic was put to work keeping the camp warm and dry.

It was one of the few times, Kazar noticed, that the Dalish used boots. Not that he blamed them; snow was cold, and it _clung_. It was a marvel to the Circle-bred elf, at the same time it was an annoyance. It got everywhere, tracking into the _aravels_ and tents and making everything wet. Thank the Creators for magic; he quickly perfected a use of fire magic that dried cloth without harming the fiber, and the others were quick to take advantage of it. Honestly, he didn't mind. It made him feel like his magic was useful for something other than frying darkspawn and spiders.

A couple weeks into winter, the clan detected a large group of humans moving a bit too close to camp. A handful of hunters left to investigate, only to run afoul of _Tal-Vashoth_ who were doing to same. Most of the rest of the hunters left to go take care of that mess, meaning there weren't any warriors in camp when Ginnae, one of the herbalists, gave an alarmed screech.

Kazar, who had been helping Master Ilen cure leather, reacted immediately, grabbing up his staff and whirling on the source of the sound. Ilen wasn't slow in grabbing a bow from under his worktable, either. Marethari burst out of her _aravel_ , a staff also in her hand.

No threat was forthcoming, though. The treeline was undisturbed, and everything was peaceful, except for a clearly-panicking Ginnae.

"What is wrong, _da'len_?" Marethari asked gently, lowering her staff and walking toward the distraught woman. Kazar approached more cautiously, looking around for what might have upset her.

"Keeper, he's gone! I turned my back for a second, and he disappeared! Radha's going to kill me!"

Oh.

On top of being one of their better hunters, Radha was also the mother of the youngest of the clan's children: a toddler named Tamlen, born during the Blight and named after a dead guy. The little guy was at the point where he could sometimes waddle a couple upright steps before falling on his face and could babble a few syllables in succession when prompted. Raising a Dalish child was definitely communal: everyone pitched in to raise him. When his mother was out ranging, the rest of the clan would take care of him as a matter of course. There was nothing more hilarious than watching the usually-stoic Dalish coo and make faces at the toddler. Ancient Elvish was not conducive to baby-talk, but they certainly tried.

Kazar wouldn't have known what to do with a baby if he wanted to, so he made do with occasionally entertaining the child with pretty magic lights and left all the feeding-burping-pooping crap to the rest of the clan.

Apparently, Ginnae was on babysitting duty today. Sure enough, Radha's blanket was laid near her worktable, alongside a small collection of wooden and bone figurines and a toy lute Master Ilen had made for Tam last month. The only thing the little play area was lacking was a toddler.

" _Dar'atisha, da'len_ ," the Keeper said soothingly. "We will find him." A number of elves were gathered around the herbalist, including Kazar.

"He's just a baby," Viriel said cheerfully. "He can't have gone far."

Ginnae nodded, still anxious but no longer near tears. "Radha said he'd been exploring more of late and would need watching. I should have listened!"

"It will be all right," Marethari repeated. "We will search the camp." She nodded meaningfully at the gathered elves, and everyone immediately split off to look for the tyke. Between the _aravels,_ benches, rocks, worktables, trees, and hanging banners… there were lots of places for a being that small to hide.

Kazar wasn't the only one to check around the blanket for tracks, but the camp's ground was hopelessly packed: Tamlen's tread would be far too light to make any impression. He cast around a bit more, then noticed a weird dip in the foliage surrounding the camp. Some of the leaves were flattened. "Keeper!" he called, and moved closer to it.

Marethari was at his elbow in an instant, and the two of them peered into the brush. There, in the shallow snow, they could see the unmistakable signs of a tiny, hobbling tread wandering away.

"That is less encouraging," Marethari said softly. She pursed her lips and nodded toward the trail. "Go after him swiftly, _da'len_."

Kazar nodded and took off down the trail. It was a looping, meandering path. Fortunately, the dusting of the snow meant that even a poor tracker like Kazar never lost the trail for long.

He wound through a series of pine trees and spotted the child up ahead. Then, he saw where the child was, and his stomach dropped. The boy was sitting on the edge of a ridge that, judging by the height of the treetops behind him, stood a good twenty feet high. Tamlen didn't even seem to notice. His fluffy ginger hair was strewn with twigs and bits of pine, and he worked diligently at picking apart a pine cone, babbling softly to himself.

Kazar approached slowly, preparing to cast an earth spell at a moment's notice in case the baby fell in the wrong direction. He wasn't particularly quiet, though, and he froze as the baby looked over at him. Tamlen grinned and greeted him with, "Kasa!"

Slowly, Kazar crouched down and beckoned. "Come here, Tam. You wanna see the sparkly thing again?" He conjured a crystal of ice in his free hand: a trick that had always delighted the child.

Sure enough, Tamlen squealed a giggle. Kazar swore his heart stopped as the toddler wobbled to his feet six inches from a deadly drop. He took two precarious steps closer to Kazar, and the mage breathed a little easier.

Then, someone crashed through the trees nearby, and Kazar dropped his staff and lunged forward on sheer instinct, scooping up the toddler, who squealed like it was all in great fun, just as a trio of burly humans practically ran over both of them. For a moment, Kazar feared that the Templars had finally found him… but no, these men had the mismatched armor sets of mercenaries. Somehow, that was almost as bad.

"Well now, what's this?" one of them laughed in a brogue. They were all big, rough men, and far bigger than Kazar. They _loomed_ over him, looked at him with amused sneers. "A couple little elves wandering away from home?"

Kazar started to prepare a lightning spell to blast them back, only for the baby to yelp when the first spark snapped against his back, and Kazar realized with mounting horror that both his hands were full of squirming toddler.

Unaware of his dilemma, the humans advanced. He hugged the baby closer to himself and retreated a step back. This earned him a laugh from one of the thugs. He was completely helpless like this, but he didn't dare put the baby down around people like this.

"Leave us alone," Kazar said sharply.

The humans whooped. "Or what?" said the leader with a smirk. He had an ugly scar clinging to one side of his mouth.

"We're Dalish. If you harm us, the entire clan will come down upon you."

"That so?" They laughed, and the bald guy on the right lunged forward. Kazar skittered back, but not fast enough. A hand closed around his arm, and Kazar cast a spell that sent a bolt of electricity through their contact. The man jerked back with a yelp.

"Did you see that?" The shaggy man on the left said. "What was that?"

"You idiot," sneered the one in the middle, smirking darkly around his scar. "That was _magic._ Looks like we got ourselves an apostate, boys."

Crap crap crap crap. Kazar skittered away, but the shaggy one dodged around behind him, hemming him in. The toddler in his arms started squirming anxiously.

"Wonder how much the Chantry will pay us to bring him in, eh?" said baldy. He grabbed Kazar's arm again. The mage sent another spark of electricity into him, but the grip only tightened. He didn't dare cast anything more powerful with a kid in his arms. More, the manhandling was causing a certain part of his psyche to stir, which was _not okay_ when holding a baby. By the Fade, what would a demonic aura _do_ to someone that young?

This was so, so bad.

A blade prodded into the small of his back, and he grit his teeth and stumbled into motion as the men marched him forward. Tam was wiggling and whimpering by this point, and Kazar was helpless to do anything but bounce him and keep breathing. He concentrated on breathing, because anything else may send him over the edge into Prideland.

He was shoved out into a clearing, and he bit back a flash of sharp righteous fury. Child. Holding a child. Couldn't lose control. No matter how much he wanted to fireball these fools.

He was now standing at the edge of a camp, black tents and a handful of cooking fires scattered around the clearing. Men in armor lounged around it, eating and playing cards, and generally being people in a camp. They paused and looked up with varying levels of amusement as Kazar was hustled into camp by the dagger prodding his back.

There were, like, thirty of them. Even without the kid, his odds of successfully defeating all these heavily armed and armored people without being cut into pieces were slim.

Tam pushed at him, making unhappy noises, and Kazar shushed and bounced him like he'd seen some other members of the clan do. It did not seem to help much.

A tall, rangy man stood from the central fireplace and ambled over. "And what's this you got here, Keis?"

"Found 'em wandering near camp, boss. Dalish, from the looks of 'im."

"So kill them," said the man.

"The big one's a mage," said scarface, and the boss's interest was piqued. "We were thinking the Chantry would be real grateful if we brought him in."

"That so?" The boss stepped closer and leaned down to smirk at him. "You a mage, little knife-ear?"

His Pride spiked, and he snapped, "Get away from me."

The human jerked away in alarm, and Tam started crying in earnest, and only then did Kazar realize he was showing and think to rein in his Pride. It took him a moment to find himself again, especially given the added chaos of a crying child. " _Atisha_ , Tam," he whispered into downy hair, though he was telling himself to be calm as much as the baby.

"Someone kill the brat to shut it up," the boss snapped, turning to walk away.

"You got it, boss," said baldy. The big man stooped to grab the child, and Kazar jerked away. He stomped a foot, casting a spell into the earth that shook the ground within five feet of him. The heavy humans were knocked off balance, and Kazar had time to stumble out of their immediate reach. The boss turned back around with a scowl, and a snap of his fingers was all it took for a dozen goons to stand and surround him.

"Resisting was monumentally stupid, knife-ear," said the boss with a sneer. "Now we'll have to teach you some respect for the Flint Company."

An increasingly familiar voice piped up behind him. "And here I was thinking we'd have to go through lengthy introductions." The boss turned sharply at it, and Kazar spotted Hawke standing on the other edge of the camp, her halberd resting casually on one shoulder and a smirk on her face. "Now we can skip straight to the fun part."

"And who are you?"

"Just a mercenary, like you boys. So you understand that it's nothing personal when I slaughter the lot of you. Just business."

The boss threw his head back and laughed, and the other men around the camp followed suit. "You and what army, missy?"

Hawke snorted in amusement. "See, that's the difference between your employer and mine. Your employer? He hired you unlucky bastards and trusted sheer numbers to make up for low standards. Prince Vael? He was smart enough to know that the only one he needed… was _me_." She gave a hand signal, and a hail of crossbow bolts fell like rain on the men surrounding Kazar.

The boss froze, taken aback as three of his men immediately fell. "Vael? But-"

She didn't give him a chance to finish the thought. She brandished her polearm and charged, sweeping his feet right out from under him. She wasn't alone, either: other figures burst from the treeline around the camp and attacked. The mercenaries turned to engage them, and Kazar took his chance to break away.

He clutched the crying child and tried to run for the treeline. He was blocked, however, by the shaggy guy, who stepped in with twin daggers glinting. Kazar skidded to a stop, and had to jerk back off-balance just to avoid having Tam become so many strips of meat. Shaggy slashed again, and Kazar twisted around protectively, taking a slash to the shoulderblade for the trouble. He started running again, even as he felt a dagger stab in lower on his back. A moment later, a bolt of magic soared past him, and the mercenary's feet were encased in rocks.

He spotted Merrill then, and headed straight for her. At any other time, he would have avoided her like the plague, along with all the uncomfortable _feeling things_ that came with her. But just now? Allies were good.

Merrill shot a series of icy blasts that froze his pursuers in his tracks, and he skidded to a stop beside her. "You're hurt!" she chirped.

"And holding a baby. Any other brilliant observations?" He set the wiggling tot down between them, then turned toward the battle in hopes of figuring out what, exactly, had just happened.

It was a melee the likes of which he hadn't seen since the Battle of Denerim. Everywhere he looked, armored figures congregated. A circle two-people deep surrounded Hawke, who merrily cleaved her way through the ranks of fighters who, unlike her, were smart enough to at least wear armor on their upper arms. Also, helmets.

It didn't seem to matter, though. Hawke was a whirlwind of deadly motion, decapitating one mercenary even while sidestepping another's thrust. In the next movement, she brought the butt of her halberd back into the nose of a man behind her, only to immediately stab it forward again into the eye of someone on her opposite side.

Equally deadly was the glowing blue form of the white-haired elf, Fenris. He tore across the battlefield recklessly, plunging into one trio of mercenaries, getting their attention with a flurry of painful slashes, and then charging off again to let someone else finish off his victims.

Which someone did: a woman with whirling daggers gladly swooped in his wake, executing each unlucky victim with a flourish. As Kazar watched, she turned and slipped up beside a man who was trading arrows with a certain dwarf sitting in a tree. Her daggers slipped easily into his back, and Varric gave her a grin and salute.

And then there were the mages. Merrill sowed a flurry of nature and earth spells around the battlefield, and Kazar was a little relieved to notice she'd eschewed blood magic for the moment. Good. Kazar felt a tingly spike of creation magic go through him, healing his injured back, and it took him a moment to identify the source. On the other side of the camp, Anders was casting gouts of ice magic between healing spells. A semi-circle of mercenaries were frozen in ice around him, and that was admittedly pretty hilarious.

Kazar cast one last glance down at Tam, who was sniffling and pouting at the elves' feet. He summoned a crib of vines to keep the tyke from wandering off again. Then, he called fire to his beck and rained it down upon the field in a torrent that, in all honestly, felt _really_ good.

Half the remaining mercenaries were caught in the firestorm, and they ducked and cried out as gouts of fire blasted down from above one after another. Two tried to duck behind the cover of a cart, but Kazar grinned and shot a fireball between them, sending them sprawling and setting one of them alight.

He spotted the bald guy who had manhandled him, engaging Fenris' huge sword with a gigantic maul of his own, and Kazar took his chance to blast the nughumper square in the back with a bolt of lightning. The bolt made a satisfying crack as it crossed the field, and the mercenary spasmed under the electrocution long enough for the white-haired elf to lop his head clean off. Fenris cast him a suspicious look across the field, then dove into his next opponent. Kazar was having too much fun to care.

He had to rein it in, however, as he realized that the power high was triggering his Pride. He didn't dare lose control here, in front of these people. Fenris, alone, seemed liklye to lop his head off before anyone thought to ask questions. He glanced down at the toddler while he calmed himself down, and noticed that Tam was crying again. Probably scared by the noise of the lightning bolt, now that he thought of it.

A trio of mercenaries charged toward him (likely _also_ scared by the lightning bolt), and scarface was among them. Before they could get within hitting distance, Merrill threw out an earthquake spell that had two of them hitting the dirt. The third, scarface, stumbled through it and continued his charge, his teeth gritted in determination. Kazar started calling a fireball spell to blast him, but another form interceded before he had the chance to finish it.

Hawke stepped in like a demon of terror, her halberd swinging around so that the wickedly curved blade at the end landed squarely across the man's ribcage. There was the crunch of steel armor buckling, and the muscles in Hawke's bare upper arms flexed as she brought her polearm back and around, smashing the butt end into the side of scarface's neck. The bastard went down with a grunt, and Hawke swooped her weapon around again, executing a spin before bringing the weapon's speared tip down into the man's exposed chest.

Kazar, despite himself, was rather impressed by the display. And apparently, Hawke could tell, because she held her pose like that and tossed a wink up at the two elven mages. Merrill grinned. "You're a little bit of a show-off, Hawke."

"Can't help it. If you were this awesome, you'd show off too." The human tore her halberd out of the corpse and turned to face the other two enemies, who were finding their feet behind her.

Kazar wasn't about to let her have all the fun. He summoned the ice from the air (cold spells were easier in winter, he'd noticed) and encased both in ice where they stood. Merrill set to pummeling one with rocks, while Hawke gleefully smashed through the other one with her weapon.

It was about this time that the remaining handful of mercenaries decided to cut their losses and turned to run. However, between three mages slinging immobilizing spells and a dwarven crossbowman with impeccable aim, not a single one reached the treeline.

The last one fell, and the camp was plunged in sudden silence, save for the tired crying of little Tamlen. Kazar bent down and picked up the toddler, summoning an ice crystal and dangling it in front of the boy in hopes of distracting him. Tam pushed it away, but at least settled down into whimpers and thrust his face into Kazar's robes.

"Is he all right?" Merrill asked, looking genuinely worried.

"Just scared, I think," he said, mindful not to speak too loudly for fear of setting him off again.

"Hey there, little Tam-Tam," Merrill leaned into Kazar's personal space to coo at the baby. Hey, _hello._ "You're a brave boy, aren't you?"

Tamlen hiccupped and babbled something.

"Of course you are. Just like your namesake, aren't you? Too adventurous for your own good." Merrill smiled, and damned if the baby didn't settle into Kazar a bit more, soothed. Kazar gave her a sour look, but she completely missed it.

"Not sure I agree with the wisdom of bringing a baby to a swordfight," Varric's voice said smoothly, and Kazar looked up to see that Hawke's little troupe had gathered nearby, all watching him with varying levels of curiosity. "But what do I know? Maybe it's a Dalish thing."

Anders, standing beside the dwarf, gave a little grin. "Me, I'd use it as a disarming tactic. You ever get into a tight spot against an opponent you can't beat, just throw a baby at them and run."

Varric chuckled. "Blondie, that is a little horrifying."

"What? It probably wouldn't get hurt. I don't care what sort of murderous monster someone might usually be; when you get tossed a baby, you _catch_ the baby."

Hawke tilted her head playfully at Anders. "Why do I see games of Toss-the-Baby going on at the Circle Tower, now?"

Anders chuckled. "Alas, we had no babies to throw; any 'accidents' tended to get shipped off to the Chantry as soon as their cords were cut. The closest thing we had was _him,_ when he was little." Anders nodded toward Kazar. "Well, little- _er,_ anyway."

"Bite me, Anders."

This only made the other mage grin at his leader. "You can see why tossing him around never became a thing."

Most of the assembled party chuckled at that. Fenris, at least, didn't… he was too busy watching Kazar suspiciously. Kazar was honestly not sure which was worse.

"So," Hawke said, looking annoyingly amused about this whole thing (and completely oblivious to the ample blood splattered across her person), "you two know one another, then?"

Kazar groaned. He _so_ did not want to relive the "good old days" with the Fereldan Circle's chronic runaway.

This only seemed to amuse said apostate even more. "We're both from the same Circle. I have to say, I never would have thought I'd see you among the Dalish, Kazar."

"I said _fricking_ _bite me_ , Anders."

Again, most of them laughed.

This time, the other, as-yet-nameless woman spoke. "Is this little sweet thing yours?"

Kazar choked, and Anders _roared_ with laughter.

"He belongs to one of the clan hunters, Isabela," Merrill supplied, finally straightening up out of Kazar's personal space, thank the spirits. Tam seemed to be dozing now. The heavy, motionless weight of him was making Kazar's arms ache. "But the whole clan watches him." She flashed Kazar a bright smile. "Last I saw him, he wasn't walking yet, but it looks like he is now, isn't he?"

"Are we done?" Kazar snapped, turning to Hawke. "Because I need to get him back to the clan."

Hawke enacted a dramatic, put-upon sigh. "That's gratitude for you. I swoop in and save the day, and I don't even get a thank-you for it."

"At least you're getting paid," said the Isabela woman off-handedly.

"Oh right. That helps."

Kazar grit his teeth. "Thank you," he forced out, and that only evoked more laughter from Anders and Varric. "But I need to go." _Before I blast the lot of you for being annoying fools._

Hawke nodded her permission, and Kazar turned on his heel and started stalking back to camp. "Take care, _lethallin_!" Merrill called behind him, and he could only huff under his breath as he left.

o-o-o-o

Halfway back to camp, he was met by a group of hunters tracking toward him, including a very grateful Radha who immediately took the baby out of his (aching) arms and checked him over for injuries. Her fellows (Harshal, Ineria, and Chandan) patted Kazar on the back and Harshal handed Kazar the staff he'd dropped back in the woods. They all turned and headed back to camp.

That night, Kazar told Marethari and a few of the other elders what had happened. When he was done recounting the tale, Marethari favored him with a smile that was downright _proud_. Warily, Kazar noticed that the others wore similar expressions (including _Paivel_ , who Kazar had been convinced was actually in pain whenever he smiled).

"You are ready, _da'len_ ," Marethari said, with a note of solemn finality. The elders nodded in agreement, and Kazar's heartbeat sped up in both anxiety and excitement. Did they mean…

"Yes, child," the Keeper said, as always uncannily aware of his thoughts. "You are ready to truly become one of the People." She paused, and a note of amusement colored her voice. "Assuming, of course, that you have any interest in joining our clan."

They were all watching him, waiting for his answer. Paivel, and Ilen, and Vinnel, and Meila (who was not an elder, but she was as good as a sister, so that afforded her an audience in anything to do with him). All watched him expectantly, with knowing looks in their eyes. They did not look alarmed by the prospect, or disgusted… they looked proud. Of him. Blood mage, abomination, and all.

"Yes," he forced out through the lump in his throat. "Of course I do."

Marethari's smile widened, as if she had expected nothing less. "Then we will prepare your _vallaslin_ , _da'len_. Tomorrow, you will join the Dalish in truth."


	15. Embrace Your Heritage

Nervous spiders clawed at his stomach, but he had learned enough control by now not to show it. His Prideful side was purring, but it, too, was easy to control. This sort of Pride wasn't wild and destructive… it was calm, inclusive. It made him feel worthy, in a way he hadn't since before taking his demon.

He sat in front of the campfire, his stomach full of the boar Meila had killed in his honor, the songs from earlier that evening still ringing in his ears. The clan was gathered round, speaking quietly amongst themselves. They fell quiet, however, as Paivel worked his way through the circle, carrying a bowl and tray. In the tray was a set of needles and other tools that brought back memories of what, exactly, this process felt like.

Paivel knelt in front of him, and Kazar took a breath to calm a flutter of nerves. The bowl was full of ink, and Paivel dipped a brush into it and brought it up to Kazar's face. The brush tickled, and the trail of ink it left behind was cold and wet.

"Tell me, _da'len,_ " Paivel said as he brought the brush down for another dip, his voice in the low cadence of ritual. "What are we?"

"We are the Dalish," he whispered, keeping his face as still as possible as the _hahren_ touched his brush to it again.

"What do we do?"

"We are the keepers of the lost lore."

"Where do we live?"

"We are the walkers of the lonely path."

"What are we?"

"We are the last _elvhen_ , and never again shall we submit."

Paivel nodded his approval, finally putting the brush away, and Kazar saw the clan peering in at his painted face curiously. Kazar couldn't guess what design the _hahren_ was painting; his previous tattoos were certainly not conducive to any of the traditional designs. He couldn't say that his heart went to any of the Creators in particular, either… between gods of secrets, hunting, crafting, and fricking _halla_ , he'd left the decision up to Marethari. Now, he kind of hoped the Keeper hadn't been hiding a cruel sense of humor from him all this time.

Metal glinted in the corner of his eye, and Kazar drew an involuntary breath as the needle pressed against his skin. No penetration yet, though he knew that wouldn't last long. Paivel met his eyes, making sure he was ready. Whatever he saw, it made him nod and press it in.

It hurt. It hurt _a lot_ , but it was a familiar pain, and he'd learned enough about control over the past months to be able to merely clench his jaw and hide it. He gazed into the fire while his sensitive flesh pricked and burned, watching the flames lap at the air in front of him. This pain was nothing; a temporary thing to be overcome like any other. That was what it meant to be Dalish.

And then, after the entirety of his face, from forehead to throat, was screaming in pain, Paivel pulled the tools away and set them on the tray for the last time. A soft down cloth was pressed to his face, coated with healing herbs and cooled with snow to soothe his inflamed flesh. Kazar remained still, letting them tend to him. This was as much part of the ritual as the Oath of the Dales: a sign of welcome into the clan. Tears prickled his eyes at the thought, where pain could draw none, and the sight made Paivel's face lift in a smile as he pulled away.

"Rise, child of the Dales," Marethari's voice said behind him, and Kazar forced his stiff legs to move. He stood and turned, and she cast him such a smile that he could only smile back, sore face and all. The Keeper held out her hand, and he took it and let her guide him away from the fire, to stand before the clan beside her. It made him self-conscious to have so many people staring at him, but it made him happy, too.

"May I present to you all," Marethari said, holding his hand up, "Kazar Surana of the Sabrae Clan, and First to the Keeper."

That last part made him glance at her in surprise, and she beamed. " _Aneth ara_ , _da'len_."

A chorus of welcomes echoed hers, and he could only stand, stunned, as each clan member touched him in turn. Meila went so far to pull him into an embrace, to a few muted chuckles around the clan. Once the whole ritual was done, there was more singing, this time with dancing and merriment. Kazar was too sore to do much except sit by the fire and watch, but that was somehow enough. These people were celebrating for _him_. He'd never really felt anything like this before.

At some point during the merriment, Meila sat beside him. Her hands were clasped together in an odd gesture that made him instantly suspicious. He tried to give her a confused look but… ow. Expressions hurt.

She got the point anyway, if the subtle light of amusement in her eyes was anything to go by. "Do you recall your discussion of 'birth days' with me, _da'lethallin_?"

"Sure?"

She nodded to herself, but it was a nervous gesture, and he would have smiled if not for the throbbing of his face. Maybe this was why the Dalish were so stoic… because smiling genuinely _hurt_.

"Ever since that day, I have been thinking about it. It seemed... unjust, to me, that you would miss out on such a tradition." She glanced at him uncertainly. "And so, I have a gift for you, in honor of this tradition."

Kazar was genuinely surprised by that. "But… it's not my birthday."

"It is, of a sort," she said, speaking faster now. "Whereas the old birthday marked the beginning of your life at the Circle, this day marks the beginning of your life among the Dalish. Today, you are reborn as one of the clan. Therefore, it is also a birth day. Would you not agree?"

Pain and all, his lips stretched into a smile, and he heard an incredulous laugh escape him. In a strange, Meila way, it made sense.

Meila stiffened defensively. "If it is so absurd, then I apologize."

"No, it's not that." He cast her as strong a smile as he could. "What is your gift, _lethallan_?"

She _beamed,_ and that was worth the ridiculousness of this whole thing. "I recalled that you had gifted your Warden's Oath amulet to the werewolves, and thought you might do with something to replace it. And so, I made you this." She finally opened her hands to reveal some sort of carved amulet. Gently, Kazar took it and held it up to the firelight.

The cord it hung from was simple braided leather, oiled to softness and dyed black. It made the white bone of the amulet itself stand out.

It was a griffon, no larger than the palm of his hand, but glorious in the power and grace carved into every delicate line. The griffon's wings were spread in flight, and its beak was open in what was no doubt a fearsome battle cry. Its eyes were tiny, golden beads of amber. Kazar rubbed his thumb over one of the eyes, marveling at how smooth it was. The whole thing warmed quickly in his hand.

"It's dragon bone," Meila said while he inspected it. "Meaning that you could pelt all the fire you like and it will not be harmed."

Kazar cast her a sidelong look. "Where in the Fade did you get dragon bone?"

"There was a nest on a nearby peak."

"Was?"

"Our 'Hawke' friend is very thorough in her destruction." He snorted at that. "It is something I suspect the two of you have in common."

It was a jest, and he shoved her playfully for it. Then, he slipped the leather cord over his head. The griffon settled comfortably right over his heart. "Thank you, Meila. I've never… been given anything like this before." Crap, he was getting misty-eyed again.

Meila wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "It was my pleasure to give it, _da'lethallin_."

o-o-o-o

A week later, once the redness and swelling had finally gone down, he dared to go to his little sanctum with a bowl, melt snow into it, and look at his reflection.

He looked… Dalish. The light, fiery tattoos that had been a part of him since he was twelve had been darkened and elaborated. Now, his face was a field of swooping patterns, depicting nothing in particular but somehow still giving the impression of fire. He traced his fingers over the lines, familiarizing himself with the pattern.

Then, a heavy tread interrupted his musing, and he looked up in time to jerk back as a bear almost as big as he was plunged its head into the bowl of water. Water splashed all over Kazar, instantly beginning to cool in the winter air.

Kazar shot to his feet. "Damn it, _Da'falon!_ " he hissed, but the stupid bear didn't seem to hear him, drinking big mouthfuls of water from the bowl. The mage cast his drying spell over himself and glared over at Meila, who watched with veiled amusement from outside the circle of roots. "Shouldn't he be hibernating or something?"

"He does not wish to," Meila said easily, as if that explained anything. "He is stubborn about such things."

Kazar just rolled his eyes and watched the black bear.

"It's Elgar'nan."

Kazar looked up at her again. She regarded him. "What?"

"Your _vallaslin_. It's a variation of Elgar'nan's."

"The father god?" Kazar still didn't put much stock in the Creators… he probably never would. But he'd heard enough of the lore to at least know them all by now.

"Elgar'nan once threw the sun out of the sky in a fit of anger." Meila's lips tugged into a smile. "The Keeper thought it appropriate."

Kazar laughed and touched his face again. "I won't deny that."

o-o-o-o

The seasons changed again, then again, and then he stopped keeping track. _Hahren_ Vinell grew ill one spring, and Kazar spent a week attempting to help Marathari tend to her. They came out of it with Vinell recovering well enough for a woman of her age, and Kazar accepting the fact that he couldn't mix a potion to save his life and creation spells were _completely_ out of his capabilities. Fortunately, Marethari didn't seem to mind doing all the work, and Kazar made do with boiling water when asked.

At some point, they grew low on mushrooms and other underground ingredients, and started venturing into the Varterral's cave to restock. Kazar was present on that first delve, his staff always in hand, and the hunters with him were tense and jumpy the entire time. They could all sense the creature in the deepest part of the cave, watching them from the shadows high above them even as they scurried to fill their herb baskets. It seemed that its elven-crafted instincts held true, though, and it never made a move against them. Thus began an uneasy coexistence with the creature.

And this wasn't the only creature they were coexisting with. Kazar mastered his nightmares enough to realize what was causing them: there was a demon nearby. He spent an afternoon following the constant Fade whispers up the mountain, only to run into a magical barrier. He recognized the construction... Marethari had put it up.

When he later confronted her about it, she sighed and reluctantly explained about the Pride Demon trapped higher up the peak. Kazar asked her why they hadn't left, then, if there was a dangerous demon so close by, and she was evasive. But he knew why she stayed. Fucking _Merrill_.

They fought, and for the first time in months, Kazar lost control. For all her teachings about clan and kin, she was sacrificing the entire clan in hopes that _one girl_ who had turned her back on them _might_ come crawling home. Had Marethari no Pride in her clan?

In his fury, he stormed out of camp, intending to head down to the city and kill the girl that chained Marethari like that… but fortunately the hunters intercepted him and someone put an arrow in his back. He spent a few weeks recovering from the physical wound, but the hurt of Marethari's betrayal could only scar, never heal.

Marethari cared more about Merrill than about the stasis of the clan. It took that hard knock off her pedestal for him to realize that he'd put the Keeper on a pedestal in the first place.

One of the hunters crossed a mountain lion and died, and Kazar helped Marethari with the funeral. Harshal and Ineria had a baby, and he helped with that, too. (The latter was the more disgusting experience). A pair of elves came up from the city with intent to join the Dalish (the alternative, apparently, was converting to the Qun) and were integrated, and Kazar enthusiastically aided in the transition. Seasons passed, and Kazar learned and lived the ways of the Dales. It wasn't a home, but it was as good as he was likely to ever get.

And then, three years later, he left it behind, and it was his own damn fault.

And Hawke's, too.


	16. Do Not Get Attached

It started when Ginnae limped into camp, clutching at a gaping gash in his side. "Help! Mythal preserve us, it's terrible!"

She was immediately flocked by elves and hustled to Marethari by the fire. "What happened, child?"

"It's the Varterral!" Ginnae panted, even as various hands pushed her down to sit. Marethari's hands glowed with healing magic. "We were collecting mushrooms, and it just _attacked_ us! Without warning or purpose! Pol was trapped behind it, and Radha told me to run for help!"

Marethari's voice was soothing. "And help we shall." She glanced up, right at Kazar. "Take some hunters, _da'len_. Do not worry about trying to fight the Varterral... merely get the _elvhen_ out."

Kazar had been First for years now. All he had to do was motion to a couple hunters (Fenarel, Ineria, Harshal, Chandan, and, of course, Meila) and they headed out toward the Varterral cave.

Kazar had gotten better at moving quietly... usually owing to sheer stubbornness on his trainers' parts. But hey, they'd had a vested interest in not letting their First get snatched up by humans every time he left camp, so he'd eventually learned.

Admittedly, there was no thrill better than ghosting through the trees with the other elves, with any nearby smugglers or Tal-Vashoth they passed none the wiser. Well, no thrill except for fireballing the darkspawn horde, but that was a given.

And so, he was able to move up to the cave entrance with his fellows in silence, and they carefully slipped inside. They heard no sign of the Varterral nearby, so Kazar dared to summon a tongue of illuminating flame to the end of his staff, and they proceeded swiftly, but carefully.

A Dalish hunting party was a thing of beauty, functioning with familiar efficiency. Without any words exchanged, Fenarel and Chandan slipped into the shadows to the left, and Ineria and Harshal did the same on the right. Meila gave a soft whistle, and _Da'falon_ plodded into the cave. The bear was full-grown now; a massive beast of black fur and muscle. It snuffled at Meila's elbow, and Kazar suppressed an eye roll and started deeper into the cave. Someone (Ineria) sniggered in the shadows. Everyone knew Kazar's feelings about the bear, but he tolerated it for Meila's sake.

Meila took point and led the rest of the patrol deeper into the cave, and Kazar held his makeshift torch high as they rounded the dark, dank corners. They could hear spiders skittering around in the darkness, but the creatures avoided direct contact for now. They seemed… spooked.

A heavy slam echoed from up ahead, and the patrol paused. They heard the sounds of pebbles falling, but no other large movements, and the cave soon fell silent again. Meila motioned for Kazar to dim the light, and he did so, keeping it barely bright enough that they could see the path. They wound down through an open hall, and a sudden gust of wind snuffed Kazar's flame for only a moment, accompanied by the sound of heavy movement. Someone cried out and was abruptly cut off.

Kazar fed the fire, whipping the staff around to confront whatever had happened, but whatever had done that was gone. Fenarel was sprawled on the ground, groaning quietly in pain.

Meila knelt beside him and offered him a poultice, and Fenarel took it gladly and pressed it against his shoulder. "Chandan. I think it got Chandan."

Kazar shone his light into the shadows, wincing as he spotted a splatter of fresh blood that did not appear to be Fenarel's.

"We didn't even hear it approach," Harshal's voice whispered, and he and Ineria were suddenly standing beside him, studying the same thing he was. "How can we defend against it if we cannot sense it coming?"

"Perhaps we could tie bells to it," Ineria attempted weakly. "Would you like to volunteer to do the tying, love?"

Harshal gave his bondmate a sour look, and Meila helped Fenarel to his feet.

"Still no sign of Radha or Pol," Meila said. "We should keep moving."

"If only to make us moving targets," Kazar grumbled. Ineria, at least. snorted weakly.

Ineria and Harshal disappeared back into the darkness, whereas Fenarel took up a sore rear guard, his eyes darting about the shadows.

They delved deeper into the cave. After a few minutes of eerie silence, they emerged onto a ledge that overlooked a high-ceilinged chamber below. Within that chamber, they could see the massive, spindly form of the Varterral. A pair of figures could be seen beyond it, sheltered in a small alcove. One of the figures was prone and not moving.

"HELP!" Pol, the one still upright, screamed upon seeing Kazar's light.

The Varterral turned to gaze up at them, and Kazar could see blood on its maw. Then, with a speed that was positively supernatural, it charged toward them, mounting the wall without even slowing. The elves on the ledge scattered as it tore into them. Kazar barely missed being crushed by a leg the size of a tree trunk. The bear roared and swiped at the massive monster, but it might as well have been the battering of gnats for all that the monster seemed to notice.

Kazar found his heels against a wall, just as the Varterral clumsily turned on the ledge—a bit too big for it—and roared down at the bear. He summoned a lightning bolt and shot it, but the magic just seemed to bounce off. That… wasn't good.

Bowstrings twanged, and the arrows also bounced off the monster's carapace. The Varterral swiped the bear clear off the ledge (it slid down the wall to the floor below) and turned to snap its maw down at one of the offending elves. It snapped a huge hole into Harshal's torso, and the hunter screamed.

"HARSHAL!" Ineria screamed, drawing her daggers. Yeah, what?

"Ineria, get out of there!" Fenarel cried. He was standing in a doorway that led into a hall too small for the monster to follow. Ineria didn't seem to hear, screaming and lunging at the gigantic beast, even as it tossed Harshal's body away. It turned toward her, but Kazar distracted it with a series of fireballs that didn't even seem to char its hard shell. What was this thing _made_ of? He'd fought _dragons_ who couldn't shrug off a spell as well as the Varterral.

Meanwhile, Meila lunged forward and grabbed the other woman. The primal scream Ineria released was heart-wrenching, but they had bigger things to worry about. Kazar backed toward the hallway, and the monster turned to meet him and gave a hissing roar. It took two huge steps toward him, and he raised his arms and yanked a chunk of ceiling down upon it.

The Varterral tossed its head as if shaking off a mild annoyance, then turned and snapped at the women. It got a grip on Meila's thigh and Kazar's heart just about stopped as it flung her across the ledge. She would have rolled off, had Kazar not snapped out a bolt of nature magic that caught her in a net of vines as she slipped over.

"Come on!" Fenarel called.

Kazar summoned all the ice he could around the Varterral, encasing it in a frozen prison (though cracks began showing within seconds). He used the precious time to dive for Meila and yank her back up onto solid ground. The woman's face was screwed in pain, and her leg... it looked a lot like Marnan's had in the Deep Roads, when the dwarf had given herself up as lost. And that was _with a healer in the party_.

No! He wouldn't let that happen to her! He got her arm around his shoulder, and she somehow managed to stand without screaming. As the ice cracked and groaned behind them, Fenarel took her other arm, and they dragged a pale and shaking Meila Mahariel into the relative safety of the small corridor. The Varterral broke free of the ice and charged toward them, but Ineria had collected herself enough to cover their limping escape, even through tears. She ducked in after the trio just as the monster slammed into the tunnel entrance.

For a terrifying moment, the spindly legs scrambled at the rock around the entrance. Then, the Varterral latched onto the wall outside it and climbed, disappearing into the recesses in the ceiling. The cavern fell into eerily silence, but that did not mean that the monster did not lurk in wait.

Now four, the elves retreated down the sloped tunnel until they reached the bottom, where there was a flat alcove just before the hallway opened up into the high-ceilinged chamber. A shaky, pale Pol was waiting for them there.

"Radha?" Fenarel asked curtly as he and Kazar carefully eased Meila down.

Pol shook his head.

Kazar didn't pay much attention to them. He was trying to summon up everything he knew about healing. He pulled the pouch of herbs that Meila always kept off her belt and began scrambling to sort and identify. Elfroot, and… and what? He'd been the First for three _years_ ; he should know this!

" _Da'lethallin_ …"

"Don't," he snapped. "You're not dying because of this stupid thing. I won't let you!"

Her hand gripped weakly at his— _fuck_ , she was pale—but she didn't protest as he took off her belt and used it as a tourniquet. He sopped up what blood he could, but there was so much.

"Maybe… maybe we can make it, if we run?" Pol ventured.

"No," Fenarel said sourly. "We won't. Not with Meila."

"We should take that thing down," Ineria said harshly, now crying in an _angry_ way. "For betraying us like this."

"Don't do anything stupid, Ineria," Fenarel said. "You've got a child now, remember?"

" _So did Radha_!" Ineria buried her face in her hands. "Poor Tamlen. He's only four; he won't understand! And my little Pinn! Oh, Harshal!"

Kazar heard her sobbing, and tried to force it to the back of his mind while he sopped up Meila's blood. Even worse was the thought that _he'd_ been four years old when he lost his family, too.

He couldn't think about that. Fix Meila.

He ripped off parts of his own robe to use as bandaging, wrapping what healing herbs Meila had up with the wound. The Varterral's maw had torn clear through her muscle, all the way to the bone. He couldn't imagine what it had done to the bone.

"I'm… I'm going to try to run for it! Maybe we can get more help!"

"POL!" Fenarel started to give chase as Pol darted off, but stopped after a few steps with a curse. He hesitated, then returned to Kazar's side. He helped Kazar hold Meila down while he wrapped what bindings he could around her wound. She had passed out at some point. Probably for the better, that way.

"Will she make it?" Fenarel asked. The Dalish didn't shy away from uncomfortable topics, that was for sure.

"I don't know. I'm _trying_ , but…"

"Whatever you can do, _da'lethallin_. That's all we can ask."

He nodded, and Fenarel stood and moved to the door. The hunter kept a hand on his bow and watched the Varterral, which was now moving around the high-ceilinged room. Meanwhile, Ineria pulled herself back together, and Kazar scrabbled to soothe his own panic and worry. He sat beside Meila, and had to put his head in his hands until he calmed down.

He raised his head again when the sounds of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Pol came streaking down the hall.

Behind him was Merrill. "Pol, wait!"

Kazar and Ineria both scrambled to their feet, but Fenarel was fastest; he moved into the doorway leading into the Varterral chamber, and Pol bounced off him.

Merrill stopped in front of them and panted, and Hawke came skidding to a stop behind her, with her dwarf and scantily-clad lady friend trailing after.

"Oh look," Hawke said cheerfully. "Some of you are alive after all."

"Pol," Merrill panted. "You don't need to run from me. Please."

"This is your doing, isn't it?" Pol spat back. "It's never attacked any of us before, but now you come back….!"

"No!" Merrill said. "I-it wasn't me! I didn't do anything!"

"Is this true?" Ineria said brokenly. "Did that thing kill Harshal because of _you_?"

"No, I swear!"

"She's right," Kazar spoke up tiredly. He didn't exactly approve of her life decisions, but he wasn't about to let her be blamed for this. "It wouldn't have been her. Magic doesn't work like that."

"You _would_ say that," Pol snapped. "You're as bad as her!"

Kazar's Pride spiked. " _Excuse_ me?"

"Now, everyone just calm down," Varric said, smoothly stepping in between the elves. "Arguing doesn't do anything to get rid of that great big monster out there."

"You can't get rid of it," Kazar said sourly. "It's a _Varterral_. They're damn near immortal."

Hawke grinned lopsidedly and shouldered her halberd. "That's just because it hasn't met me yet." She started toward the door into the monster's chamber, but Fenarel kept himself stubbornly in the way.

"This creature has taken out three of our best hunters," he said flatly. "What makes you think you stand a chance, _shem_?"

She blinked. "Because I'm Hawke," she said, as if it was obvious. Yeah, she hadn't changed at all.

"Forget it," Kazar said. "We need to go back. Meila needs healing." He motioned at the unconscious pile of elf in the alcove.

"I… we can't," Merrill said. "We have to slay the Varterral, or the Keeper won't give me the _Arulin'Holm_."

The Dalish elves stared at her.

Kazar fought an eye twitch. Master Ilen had once shown him the artifact. It was precious to the clan... as in, not the sort of thing they would usually put in the hands of a pariah. "Merrill… why do you need the _Arulin'Holm_?"

Merrill stiffened. "That's none of your business."

"So help me, if this is about that damned _shard_ …"

"It's more than a shard now," Isabela said helpfully. "Now, she's got an entire mirror, don't you Kitten?"

"The _Eluvian_ …?" Meila's voice cracked, and Kazar dropped down to her side. She was trying to sit, stubborn woman, and he pushed her gently back down. The more blood in the head, the better. "Merrill… don't…killed Tamlen…"

Merrill turned away. "I have to. You wouldn't understand, Meila. You're not a Keeper."

"Except that Keeper Marethari agrees that it's too dangerous," Kazar said. By the Fade, they were treading this old argument _again_? "You know what? I don't know why I keep trying to talk to you like you're capable of sense. You stay here and die; the rest of us are heading back _now_."

Merrill turned to Fenarel and Ineria. "And you just let him talk for you like that?"

"He's our First now, Merrill," Fenarel said stiffly. "He's just thinking of the clan."

Merrill turned back to Kazar, her eyes going wide. "Y-you? You're the Keeper's new First?"

"What did you expect?" he snapped, a bit more sharply than he'd intended. "For Marethari to wait around for you to learn sense and come back?"

"But… but you're not even a real Dalish!"

 _Ouch_.

And then, immediately following: _She wouldn't know real Dalish if one skinned her blood writing off her fool face._ He turned away abruptly to hide the abrupt surge of Pride.

It was still there, of course. It was always there. But it took a lot to bring it out these days. Apparently, that was one of those things.

"He's more Dalish than you," Fenarel said, and Kazar was soothed by that.

"Hey," Isabela said, moving to stand protectively in front of the nitwit. "Lay off, would you? It's like kicking a puppy, what you're doing."

"A blood mage puppy," Pol hissed.

Hawke sighed and planted her halberd pointedly in the ground. "Look, as fun as it is to watch elves squabble, this isn't doing anything to help. Tell you what: you help me squish that overgrown bug, and I'll help you get your friend back to camp. Does that sound fair?"

"And how, _shem_ ," Fenarel said, still standing in their way, "do you propose to defeat it?"

Hawke grinned lopsidedly and shrugged. "Same way I always do: by smacking it until it decides to lay down and die."

Fenarel pressed his lips together and met Kazar's gaze. "I doubt we'd make it past the creature otherwise."

Blast it all. He was right. "Fine," Kazar hissed, standing and snatching up his staff. "But so help me, Hawke, if Meila dies while you're playing hero, I'm trapping all of you down here to be eaten when it regenerates.

Hawke nodded and strutted right past Fenarel into the Varterral's chamber.

"Wait," Varric muttered softly as her companions followed, "what was that about regeneration?"

Kazar cast a glance at the remaining hunters. Ineria, tear-streaked and all, nodded grimly, and Fenarel sighed and took up his own bow. Pol was white as a sheet as he gripped his own bow in unsteady hands. "Pol, you should guard Meila," Kazar suggested and generously did _not_ say _You'd only get in the way otherwise_.

Then, the remaining Dalish followed Hawke out into the Varterral's lair.

For a moment, the seven of them just stood there in the center of the chamber, wondering where the monster had gone. Then, there was a slow, lumbering shift of rocks above them, and they all looked up.

"Oh, bugger," Isabela said.

It _loomed_ , its massive form lurking in the deep shadows directly overheard. Then, with only another subtle shift in warning, it released the ceiling and plunged toward them.

On reflex, Kazar whipped a stone shield up around himself, pulling a column from the rocks at his feet and snapping it up just in time to feel the Varterral impact the ground around him. He looked up past his stone blockade and saw that the Varterral's belly was directly above him, its tree-trunk legs blocking him in from all sides.

"Mythal protect us," Merrill said, standing two feet away from him. Everyone else, apparently, had dodged aside instead.

This worked in the mages' favor, as the monster turned toward the person nearest its jaw: Hawke, who had rolled to her feet and now stood protectively in front of her less well-armored companions.

The Varterral did not look particularly impressed by this display of heroism. Its head dove down toward her, and she met it with a mighty swipe of her halberd that, to her credit, actually knocked its maw aside. Merrill and Kazar used its distraction to scurry out from under it, Kazar firing off an ice spell at a leg as he did. The monster broke through the ice pretty much immediately, so that seemed less of a hindrance and more of a decoration.

The mages joined the line of archers behind Hawke.

"You all right, Daisy?" Varric asked, then let loose a report with his crossbow.

"That was a little close, wasn't it?" Merrill said tightly.

As if in answer to that _egregious_ understatement, the monster let loose a howl that shook the very stone under them. Kazar planted his staff in the ground and sent a pulse of nature magic into it, and a nest of roots rose from the stone to help keep them all on their feet for the duration.

"Our turn!" Hawke called, and, because she was apparently _out of her mind_ , launched herself at the towering creature.

Isabela sighed. "The things we do for you, Hawke." Then, she ran around behind the creature to nip at its heels. It was a little terrifying that Ineria grit her teeth and followed suit with her own daggers.

Kazar, for his part, was happy to stay back. Merrill and Varric were on one side of him, and Fenarel on the other. The Dalish archer was sighting toward the teeny maw-like appendage that passed for a head, but all his shots just bounced off its hard shell. The dwarf's crossbow, at least, seemed to be punching through, if the number of bolts sticking out of its armor was any indication.

Kazar volleyed fire and lightning at the creature, but, as before, it didn't seem to be hurting it much. Merrill called up roots and rocks to hold the thing in place, but the monster was too strong to be restrained by such things for long. That wasn't even touching on the pointlessness of Isabela's and Ineria's daggers as they dodged around its back limbs.

Even Hawke's mighty swings were barely punching through its carapace, though not for lack of relentlessness on her part. It reached down with its grasping forearms, and she slashed them away, utterly confident in her own invincibility.

Kazar wasn't so sure. He'd fought dragons, and broodmothers, and all sorts of nasty creatures that were unfairly large and could take an unlikely amount of damage before feeling it. He'd once collapsed a cavern on top of a Tainted horde, and even that hadn't stopped the archdemon.

Though… this wasn't a matter of killing it—to hear Marethari tell it, such a thing was about as likely as slaying the archdemon without a Warden on hand. They just needed to get it to sit and stay for long enough to retrieve a couple amulets and escape with Meila.

The monster shrieked and turned to snap at Isabela. She was lifted a foot in the air before she squirmed free of its maw and rolled away. A crossbow bolt punched into the side of its head, and it raised it with a shriek, more angry than hindered.

Well, if they couldn't hurt it, maybe several tons of rock would.

"Merrill!" he called. The other mage glanced over at him between bursts of lightning. "We need to bring the cave down!"

"While we're in it?!" Pol's voice screeched, _way_ too near for him to be guarding Meila. "Are you crazy?!"

Kazar snapped his gaze over, and found that the other elf was in the chamber with them, fighting off a pair of giant spiders that were chasing him across the cavern. "What in the Fade are you doing?!" Kazar snapped.

"They attacked me!"

Kazar sent a fireball his way that charbroiled the spiders, but they didn't have _time_ to argue. "Merrill!"

"I'm ready!" The other mage pointed directly above them, where a collection of massive stalactites hung. "Do you think those might hurt, if we pull them down on top of it?"

"I think that would hurt just about anything, Daisy," Varric said. Then, he called, "Hawke! When you're done playing with it, lure it over here, will you?"

Hawke grunted something between swings; Kazar didn't try to translate it. "Everyone find cover!" Kazar shouted.

Taking his own advice, Kazar ran for the passageway, Fenarel and dwarf on his heels. They cleared the area just in time, too, as Hawke darted across the chamber with the Varterral skittering after her.

Merrill, however, had gone for Pol, as had Isabela, and now the three of them were on the opposite side of the monster, under a flimsy overhang. Ineria, meanwhile, was showing no intention of ceasing her attempt at stabbing vengeance on the Varterral.

"Ineria!" Fenarel called. " _Move_!"

Meanwhile, Kazar dipped into the alcove to check on Meila… as did Varric, surprisingly. She was pale and still, and Kazar's heart did this awful twisting thing at the prospect that they were too late. The dwarf knelt next to her and put two fingers to her throat. Then, he gave Kazar a curt nod. "She's still going. Do your thing, Sparky."

Kazar nodded shakily and turned his attention back outward.

The monster was directly under the stalactites, trying to chomp on Hawke as the human repeatedly charged straight under it, cutting its stomach open with her halberd on each pass. Fenarel was physically dragging Ineria into their alcove, despite her spitting and screaming. Merrill, Pol, and Isabela were still on the other side of the chamber, but they were huddled under their overhang as well as they could. It wouldn't get much better.

Kazar stepped out and gathered his magic. He'd done this before, so at least he knew the steps… even if he had been using blood magic and not a little demonic influence at the time. He sank a bolt of earth magic into the mass of stone above them, and felt the twining of magic as Merrill did the same from the other side. Above them, the stone formations creaked and trembled, but didn't shake loose.

Kazar grit his teeth and poured more magic into it. Earth had never been his strongest element… but he was a primal mage! He'd done this before on massive scale… one section of ceiling shouldn't be this hard!

Hawke was tiring; that much was obvious. She stumbled, and the Varterral's forearms reached down and snatched her up. She twisted her weapon around and chopped part of the pincer off, and it dropped her, but her landing was not graceful. She had to pick herself up and move out of range quickly to avoid a massive leg coming down at her.

Kazar gave the earth above the monster everything he had, but it still didn't seem like enough. The ceiling groaned and released a shower of pebbles, but the stone wouldn't soften fast enough to fall in bulk, and the effort of cutting through that much hard rock was making him dizzy.

Then, he felt the metallic magic on the air, and the magic twining through his surged suddenly. Kazar's inner demon surged in response, and he had to bite it back so as not to give into the urge to join Merrill in her blood magic.

He'd been clean of it for three years, dammit! He was _not_ using it now!

…but what if it saved all their lives? Meila's life?

 _NO!_ Temptation was temptation, and he couldn't give in even an inch! If he did, he'd lose every inch of ground he'd scrabbled over to get control of himself over the years.

An empty, terrifying thought, because the blood magic was doing the trick.

Somewhere, someone was screaming, but Kazar didn't have the concentration to find out who. He was too busy fighting the urge to start going demonic all while pouring himself into the task. The blood magic twined through his, insidious and familiar and _oh Creators just one more taste… just one little knick, the power, how I've missed it…_

Unbidden, he found his right hand reaching for his hunting knife.

Then, the ceiling shattered, and rained stony death upon everything below.


	17. When Descending Sundermount, Have a Plan

The ceiling buckled and roared above them. The Varterral was hit with a massive stalactite twice its size and its spindly limbs collapsed with a shriek. Hawke's form could be seen dodging out of the way, sprinting through the tumble of rocks in a blur.

Kazar broke out of his fugue in time to realize that there was another figure in the middle of the chamber... Pol, running from Merrill. She called after him as the panicked elf sprinted right into the middle of the cavern.

Kazar ran forward and snapped out his magic in a desperate attempt to save the _moron_ from being crushed, but something hooked around his ankle and yanked him backwards. He tumbled and his spell flew wild, exploding a rock on the opposite wall.

He was pulled back into the alcove just as a boulder the size of a bear landed where he'd been a moment before. Kazar froze, realizing just how close he'd been to meeting the same fate he'd been trying to prevent. A glance at his feet proved the instrument of his salvation to be a gigantic crossbow.

Then, with a groan and a roar, the cavern caved in, and Kazar turned his magic to the ceiling above himself, Varric, and the Dalish hunters before it threatened to do the same, hardening the earth and pulling some roots down from above to stabilize it. Even so, they were covered in a cloud of dust and stone.

The cave rumbled around them for a few long seconds before finally settling into silence. Kazar, Fenarel, and Varric stared at one another for a moment as it dawned that they had, in fact, survived that. Then, as one, all three of them surged out of the passage and into the chamber proper.

The cavern had been completely transformed... what had previously been a relatively flat floor was now a mess of tumbled stones, dust still settling in a cloud around it. They couldn't even see the Varterral for the heap… but the utter lack of movement spoke to the effectiveness of their stunt.

Then again, Kazar had been misled by such silences before, so he kept his staff up, just in case.

"Hawke!" Varric called, even while Merrill's call of "Pol!" sounded from across the chamber. Something in Kazar untwisted at hearing that she, at least, had survived that onslaught.

There was a cough from against the near wall, and a shape coated in rock dust pushed out from under a stone the size of a mabari.

"Hawke, you are Lady Luck incarnate," Varric laughed and picked his way over, then helped pull his leader out of the pile.

The human coughed again, a small plume of dust leaving her as she did. "Except for where Diamondback is concerned. That's all skill, and you know it."

"Sure, Hawke. Whatever you say."

"Pol! POL!" Merrill was digging through the pile. "Hawke, I can't find Pol!"

"I don't think you will, Kitten," Isabela said gently.

"You killed him," Fenarel said far less gently.

"No!" Merrill was near tears now. "I didn't! It's not… he ran!"

"Well, what did you expect?" Kazar found himself grinding out. "You used blood magic right in front of him!"

"Stay _out_ of this, Kazar!" Merrill shot back, sounding angry, except that she sounded like she was about to cry, too.

"It's true, though," Fenarel said. "You chased him out into the room, and then you pulled the ceiling down on top of him." Fenarel turned from her in disgust and headed back for the passage. "It's no wonder the Keeper turned you out. You're a _menace._ "

And there it was. The tears. Kazar looked away, because he was trying to stay _indignant_ , damn it.

Ineria limped around the pile, and he ushered her back to the passage while Hawke's band gathered around the sobbing Merrill.

They stopped beside Meila, and Kazar knelt down to check on her. She still had a pulse, but she was white as a spirit, and her leg was a mass of congealing gore.

"Is she going to make it?" Fenarel asked softly, so the other group wouldn't hear.

Kazar swallowed around a lump in his throat and shook his head helplessly. "I don't know."

"So many of us lost," Ineria said in a thick voice, clutching Radha's clan amulet to her chest. "What are we going to tell their families? Or the Keeper?"

Fenarel reached over and clasped his fellow hunter's arm. "We will tell them the truth. That they died bravely."

"Except Pol," Kazar muttered bitterly.

"That one, we will pin on Merrill."

"I was casting too," Kazar snapped, turning to glare up at the hunter. Ugh, and there it was: the churning _guilt_. He _hated_ feeling guilty, but it was a constant companion ever since his demon ordeal. "I'm just as at fault as her."

"I didn't see you using blood magic," Fenarel returned.

 _You just weren't watching._ Kazar bit back that response, shoving down the memory of the longing that had overtaken him.

 _Three years_. Why wasn't he free of it after _three damn years_?

"Come on," Ineria said. "Let us get her back to camp."

Easier said than done. It looked like a loud sneeze may just finish her in this state; how could they possibly hope to move her?

Still, Kazar didn't really _do_ giving up, so he reached for his magic. His pool of power was still feeling a little empty after being so expended, so he channeled it through his staff to maximize it, pulling long, ropy roots out of the walls. The hunters didn't even need to be told what to do: they immediately got to cutting the roots out and tying them together to make a litter-hammock-thing.

Meila had once done that for him, he recalled. A long time ago, after their defeat at Ostagar. The thought made that lump in his throat grow, but he refused to acknowledge it beyond a few stubborn swallows.

They were gently moving Meila onto it by the time the other four ducked into the passage.

"So…" Hawke said, "is there a reason there's an unconscious bear against the far wall?"

Kazar cursed. He'd forgotten about _Da'fallon_.

Fenarel seemed to agree. "He is going to be upset and disoriented when he wakes up."

Varric said, "Then it sounds like we shouldn't be here when it wakes up, doesn't it?"

Kazar had a feeling things would be a bit more complicated than that, but Meila had priority at the moment. They loaded Meila onto the litter, and Hawke stooped down to take one end while Fenarel had the other. Then, they lifted it (Meila didn't even _twitch_ ) and started the long climb up out of the lair.

Merrill was absolutely silent the entire time, which was a far cry from her usual chatter. Ineria was quiet, too, which was a bit more understandable, since she'd lost her bonded. Chandan. Radha. Harshal. Pol. And possibly Meila.

Kazar was not looking forward to telling Marethari about this.

It was a subdued clan that met them when they arrived back at camp. The non-Dalish were barely even glared at as Marethari rushed to get Meila into her _aravel_. Once Hawke and Fenarel had laid her down, Marethari shooed everyone out except for Kazar. The First set about the terrifying task of trying to keep his only remaining friend alive. A part of him wanted to break down into helpless screaming. He shoved back the urge like he'd learned to shove back his demon, and he prepared bandages and herbs while Marethari started casting.

Marethari, at least, was a master of ancient healing arts. Watching her work was always a little startling, as her healing spells weren't like the ones used by Circle-trained mages like Wynne and Felicity. Her spells called up something older and more primal, chanting in Elvish mixed with herbs and motions and a little bit of old magic. It was beyond Kazar's understanding in a way far beyond even other Creation magic.

But he was used to it by now. He'd been her First for long enough to read her motions and anticipate her needs. The pouring of water, the careful application of herbs… These were things he could do, and his focus had never been sharper than this moment.

Time passed, and then Marethari leaned back and sighed, her enchantments settling into the damaged leg. "That, I'm afraid, is all I can do."

Kazar blinked out of the hyper-concentrated state he'd been in. It felt like mere minutes had passed, but his legs were sore enough from kneeling that he surmised it must have been nearly an hour. "Will she make it?"

"She will live, yes. She is strong. However…" Marethari set a sad hand on Meila's injured leg, "…I'm afraid there was far too much damage for even my arts. This leg may never work properly again."

Kazar felt the world tilt under him, and had to lower his head and just breathe for a while. Meila, proud, strong _Meila_. Crippled. What kind of sick, twisted fate was that, that one of the strongest warriors he knew had that happen to them?

Fuck this world. Seriously.

A gentle hand settled onto his shoulder. "If you wish, you may stay in here while I break the news to the clan."

He shook his head and gathered his self-control. "I'm fine."

"Then come. We will leave her to rest."

Kazar levered himself to his feet and followed the Keeper out of the _aravel._

The camp was somber when they emerged. Fenarel was speaking low with the elders clustered around the campfire, while Ineria hugged her baby to her and made a very valiant point of not weeping.

Hawke and company were lingering near Ilen's stall, clustered around Merrill like a pack of wolves protecting an injured member. Merrill, meanwhile, had been watching the Keeper's _aravel_ , and now perked up at the sight of them.

She wasn't the only one. The elders turned to greet her. "What news, Keeper?" Paivel asked.

"Mahariel will live," Marethari announced in her slow way. "However, it is not without cost, the extent of which is yet to be seen."

Bowed heads greeted that declaration.

Marethari then turned to address Hawke. "Come, let us conclude your business. After it is done, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave us in peace, to mourn our fallen."

"Of course," Hawke said, with no hint of inappropriate levity for once.

The Keeper motioned toward Ilen, whose lips thinned, but he nonetheless ducked behind his worktable. Marethari drew Hawke over to the table and dropped her voice. "You have invoked _vir sulevanan_ and performed the given task as promised. I am therefore bound to present you with that which you requested."

Ilen stood, holding an engraved wooden box in his hands. Inside, Kazar knew, was the _Arulin'Holm_. The craftsman did not look happy to be giving it over, but he was as bound by tradition as the rest of the Dalish.

It was kind of stupid, how they were just letting this happen, simply because tradition dictated it be so. It was something that reminded him that, deep down, he wasn't really Dalish enough.

Then, for the first time since she'd given her ultimatum three years before, Marethari turned and addressed Merrill directly.

"Are you certain about this course of action, _da'len_?"

"I am," she replied with that same stubborn jut of the chin that she always had when she was digging in her heels.

Marethari did not look surprised, but she was obviously disappointed. "Very well." She picked up the box from the table and held it out to… Hawke? "Hawke, I bequeath this artifact of my people to you, to do with as you see fit. Take care of it, child." _And of her_ , she didn't need to say out loud.

"I will," Hawke said, and took the box. The human held it carefully, at least, and Marethari seemed satisfied with that.

"Now, if you please, my people would be alone just now."

Hawke nodded and tucked the box under her arm. "Thank you, Keeper." Then, without further ado, she turned and led her companions out of camp.

The Dalish watched them go in silence. Then, softly, Master Ilen asked, "Are you sure that was wise, Keeper?"

Rare enough for anyone to question the Keeper. Even rarer that the Keeper hesitated before answering. "It is not my place to turn down the invocation of _vir sulevanan_. However, I know Hawke possesses the wisdom to know what to do with the artifact."

"Hawke, wise?" Kazar asked incredulously. "An hour ago, this woman was willingly baiting a Varterral."

"They are unrealized depths, perhaps," Marethari said sagely, "but I know they are present in her."

"And until those depths are realized, Merrill is allowed to run unchecked."

" _Da'len-_ "

"She used blood magic in the Varterral lair, Keeper. _Casually_." Kazar felt his stomach doing all sorts of knotting things. "Do you know what I did after I started using it like that? _I joined with a demon_."

"That is enough," Marethari said sharply (or as sharp as she ever spoke, anyway). "It will not come to that for Merrill."

"You can't know that." His alarm was slipping past his control like water through his fingers. "I'm sure Hawke's a nice lady, but she's not equipped to understand the risks. She won't know what signs to watch out for."

"Enough, child."

"Merrill is walking down the same road that I did, and we _can't let her_." He found himself staring down at his feet, old guilt and shame and fear surging up. "We have to do something."

"I'm afraid there is nothing we can do," the Keeper said firmly. "Leaving us was Merrill's choice."

"Can't you just go down there and… shake some sense into her or something?"

"My path lies with the People. Merrill has chosen to leave that path…thus, I cannot follow."

An idea took hold in him. "What if someone else could?"

He could tell by the way her expression turned somehow _more_ solemn that she sensed his intent. "I would advise against it, child."

"I'd know what to look for. I've been through it; I'd know the signs."

"And in doing so you would take yourself from us," she said with calm covering increasing tension. "We have already lost one First to this foolishness."

"You've lost an entire _clan_ to this foolishness!" And here it was… the impotent frustration that had been boiling up for _years_ now. "We should have moved on by now. Met up with other clans… replaced our hala. But _you_ are so caught up in _hoping_ that your precious Merrill will come back that you can't see your clan dying around you!"

Dead silence descended around the camp.

" _Da'len,_ that is enough –"

"The Void it is!" Kazar planted his staff in the ground. His Pride was welling up like it hadn't in years (wonderful… first blood magic, now his little demon problem? What else was he going to backslide on today?). He could see the flickers of red light reflecting off the eyes of the clan. _His_ clan. "You are so distracted by the one girl that you would sacrifice the rest of your people to stagnate and die on top of a mountain with a _fucking demon_ on it!"

" _Enough_ , Kazar."

"NO!" The roar was all his built up frustration and righteous anger… and if it sounded a little dissonant with demonic power, well, that only made it more intimidating. "That's your burden to bear, Keeper. You led us… your clan… to this place." Unbidden, his magic was picking up around him… lightning danced up and down his arms, and a torrent of wind whipped around them, tossing hair and robes to and fro. "This place that has restless spirits and haunted graveyards and an ancient monster that _killed_ our hala and four of our hunters! That _crippled Meila_! That is on _YOU_!"

Marethari cast something at him—a puff of dark, entropic magic—and his energy abruptly rushed out of him. His demonic power flickered out like a snuffed candle, but not his anger. That simmered, even as he leaned on his staff against a wave of dizziness.

"Recall your control," Marethari said in a deadly tone.

Kazar grit his teeth and met her gaze evenly. "I am _in_ control, Keeper. I just have some fucking pride in my clan. And I'm not sure I can say the same about you."

"Kazar, go wait in my _aravel_. We will discuss this in private."

"No, you can't just dismiss this–"

"Go."

" _No._ "

She was stubborn… built out of strong, unyielding wood as much as any other Dalish elf. _Vir Bor'assan._ Bend but never break.

Kazar, however, was so tired of sitting idly. He was a Grey Warden, which meant he was an elf of action. And this, more than anything, needed action.

"I'm going after her," he said quietly, his voice shaking only a little. "And I'm going to bring her back, even if I need to wrap her in vines to do it. And then we are going to leave this place and find our path again. Like, if I am not mistaken, Dalish are _supposed_ to do."

He turned and headed toward his own tent to pack up his things, and the surrounding clan parted before him. The elves he'd lived with for the past three years all eyed him warily, no doubt due to the fresh reminder of the condition that had brought him here in the first place. So be it.

He grabbed up what little he had and ducked back out, and no one had moved. Well, except for Master Ilen, who met him at the entrance and pressed a sack into his hands. A quick perusal proved it to be some hastily gathered supplies… food, herbs, some Dalish carvings for barter. Kazar gave him a nod in thanks, glad that someone in this blasted camp had their head on straight.

Marethari watched him grimly, silently, from beside the campfire as he left. She did not approve, but she let him go.

He'd known she would.

o-o-o-o

And just like that, his status quo was turned on its head all over again.

He found himself following the tracks left by Hawke and company, surprised that he could track them with relative ease. That was, Hawke was easy to track, clomping through the underbrush with all the finesse of a bereskarn. The other three, at least, seemed to instinctively hug harder surfaces and avoid foliage that gave their position away.

Kazar wasn't carrying much with him: his staff, his robes, and the pack Master Ilen had given him. He'd been traveling for about an hour before he cursed and realized he hadn't grabbed a pair of shoes... a decision he'd likely regret, if he remembered the filth of cities.

Ironic, that.

Dusk fell, and Kazar found that the mountainside was far less familiar in the murky light. He considered turning in, but a break in the trees showed him the curling smoke of a campfire ahead, on the sandy path that curved around the base of the mountains. Hoping it was his quarry but ready in case it wasn't, Kazar moved slowly toward the light.

He saw the flicker of firelight through the trees and crept around to a rocky outcropping ten feet above it. He peered out from the foliage and saw the campfire flickering below, with a pair of tents set up beside it. However, Kazar scanned for signs of people, and none made themselves known. The camp was silent but for the crackling of the fire.

Then, something charged through the bushes straight at him from behind, and Kazar spun and released a burst of lightning. Whatever it was kept coming in an inexorable wall of steel, and Kazar skittered back clear over the ledge, his mind providing him with nightmarish flashes of Templars coming for him. He slid the ten feet down into the camp and landed painfully on his back. A moment later, a massive crossbow bolt embedded itself into the rock face four inches in front of his nose.

"Hold on, everyone! It's just Sparky."

Hawke's head poked out of the bushes above him—inexorable wall of steel indeed. "Well that's no fun. I was hoping for assassins."

"Me too." Isabela said thoughtfully, dropping down from a tree right above Kazar. "I like assassins. I knew this assassin once who could do this _wonderful_ thing with his tongue…"

"Not in front of the kids, Rivaini," Varric said. He and Merrill both emerged from the bushes around the camp. He looked in relatively light spirits. She did not.

"Kazar?" Merrill said suspiciously. "What are you doing here? Are you _following_ me?"

Sitting on the ground, surrounded by a bunch of armed near-strangers, he said, "No, I'm out taking an evening stroll. Any other obvious questions?"

"Go home, Kazar." Her glare was pure angry puppy. Something had happened to upset her. "I don't need you spying on me for the Keeper."

"Wait, what's happening now?" That was Hawke, sliding down the rock face to land heavily beside Kazar. He was still sitting against the slope with no escape route, and was feeling increasingly discomfited. "Merrill has a stalker?"

Isabela smirked, "Only one way to handle a man who can't take 'no', Kitten. Cut off his balls." Wait, _what_?

"He's _not_ a stalker," Merrill growled. "He's the Keeper's First, and that means he's here spying for her." She glared down at him with narrowed eyes. "Hawke's not giving me the _Arulin'Holm_ , so you can run back to the Keeper and tell her not to worry about me finishing the Eluvian. You're not needed."

Well… that was a little bit of a relief. But it was missing the point. "I'm not here for the Keeper."

Merrill made a disbelieving sound and crossed her arms.

Hawke prodded him with the butt of her halberd. "Then what _are_ you doing here?"

He… didn't have an answer to that. Not one that would make sense without revealing _way_ more about himself than he wanted to.

When he didn't answer right away, Hawke poked him again. Kazar crossed his arms.

"None of your business." Yeah, that was persuasive. Genius response on the part of the little elven mage.

"Maybe they kicked him out, too," Isabela said. "Maybe he was a naughty boy. Or not naughty enough. Mm, yes, he's definitely giving off a 'repressed' vibe, so I'm betting that one."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

Hawke shrugged and leaned on her polearm. "Honestly, I don't care why he's here, as long as he doesn't try to use me as a political proxy."

"Ah, yes," Varric said, and turned to head for the fire. "I'm sure it's difficult, having the viscount's respect."

"It _is_!" Hawke said at a near whine, following the dwarf. "Everyone wants me to _do_ things! _Important_ things, like finding Qunari patrols and walking into clouds of poisonous gas! I miss the days when I was smashing bandits for money."

The pair settled by the fire, seeming to completely forget that Kazar was there. This left him with Isabela's a-bit-too-assessing gaze and Merrill's _glaaaaare_. Kazar carefully picked himself up, ignoring both of them.

"I warned you this would happen," the dwarf breezed on. "I said, 'Hawke, being the pinnacle of awesomeness is a lot of work. Everyone wants you to show up at their parties.' And you said…?"

"...'I do like parties'," Hawke sighed. "See, I thought by 'parties' you meant, 'go to a tavern and get roaring drunk with friends.' Not 'dress up in horrible gowns and uncomfortable shoes and let my mother parade me around to all the eligible bachelors in Hightown.'"

Isabela settled down next to Hawke at the fire. "Any good eye candy, at least?"

"Not a _one_ ," Hawke moaned. "They're all mousy and soft and… noble. Ugh."

They had completely dismissed his presence. Five minutes ago, they'd been ready to cut him to pieces… and now they just _went_ with it?

By the Fade, what had he gotten himself into?

Merrill gave him one last pointed look before moving over to the shadows on the other side of camp, away from the fire.

Kazar held his staff tightly, ready to fight or run if this turned out badly. Still, he wasn't one to beat around bushes, and so he approached the fire as the trio started prepping for dinner. After the months chasing the Blight, the motions of setting up camp were familiar, even if the people were different. Kazar found himself keenly missing Garott Brosca's easy laughter and Leliana's songs. He even kinda missed Alistair and Amell making puppy-eyes at each other, and that was just _weird_.

"Are you really not giving her the _Arulin'Holm_?" Kazar asked, breaking the companionable silence. He could practically feel the indignant anger emanating from the Merrill part of camp.

"Of course not," Hawke said, spiking a newly-plucked dead pheasant and hanging it over the fire. "That's why we brought her to your camp in the first place. To try to convince her to _stop_."

Well, that was unexpected. Wryly, he said, "It would never have worked. Anyone in the clan could have told you that."

"Anything's worth trying once," Hawke said easily. "That's my motto. Well, that and, 'money now, please.' Oh, and 'die, maleficar, die.'"

Kazar hid a wince.

Isabela stoked the campfire. "Don't forget 'smashing skulls is fun,' love."

"Mm, good point. And 'never trust Uncle Gamlen with money.'"

Varric said, "How about 'to the victor go the spoils, and to the refuse go the scum.'"

"Ooh, I like that one. Varric wins, everybody."

"Varric always wins," Isabela pouted.

 _What was even_ … Kazar shook his head, as if that would help him follow the convolution of this conversation. Back on track. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Hm?" It was almost like she was surprised he was still there. "Do with what? My motto? I'm thinking of painting it above my door, though I suspect Mother would pop a vein if I tried–"

"I think he means the knife," Varric said.

"Oh, right. Don't know." Hawke shrugged, then raised her voice. "Merrill, what do you think of selling this priceless heirloom of your people? Could I get a good price for it, do you think?"

"Not funny, Hawke," Merrill's voice said crossly from the darkness.

"At least she knows you're joking," Varric chuckled softly.

Kazar was glad _someone_ did. He was still lost.

"I don't get it," he pressed. "If you don't agree with what she's doing, why did you take the _Arulin'Holm_ in the first place?"

Hawke stared up at him blankly. "Well, I didn't want to be rude. Do you know what would happen if your Keeper handed me a priceless Dalish artifact and I turned it down? Talk about awkward."

"You accepted an ancient _elvhen_ heirloom that is of no use to you... because it would have been _awkward_?"

Hawke turned a baffled look to her companions. "Isn't that what I said?"

"He's not used to you, sweet thing," Isabela said comfortingly. "Remember, it takes time for most people to adjust."

"Hey, Sparky," Varric waved him over. "Why don't you sit down? Watching you loom like that is playing havoc on my nerves."

"I'm not looming."

"Uh huh."

Kazar moved a bit closer, but he didn't sit. On the one hand, he didn't know these people beyond a handful of run-ins over the past couple years.

On the other hand, he didn't know _anyone_ in the Free Marches outside the clan. No one except Merrill. If they were going to let him share their camp, he was in no position to refuse.

Hawke pulled the grouse off the fire and wielded it like a sword at Isabela, who promptly kicked back on the log they were both sitting on. Both women fell off in a pile of laughter, and only quick reflexes on the dwarf's part saved the bird from the fire.

Kazar hugged his staff to himself and dared a glance over at Merrill, who was watching them with wide, watery eyes.

At least Kazar wasn't the only one feeling out of place. For some reason, the thought was not very comforting.


	18. It's Not Charity if You Eventually Pay for It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Briefly pausing in my Dragon Age: Inquisition marathon to post this. I though I could not love this series any more than I did, but DA:I proved me wrong. :)

"So. Sparky."

"It's Kazar."

"Just go with it," Hawke said from up ahead, where she was leading the party through the mists that kissed the Wounded Coast in the early morning. "Varric nicknames everyone. Except me." She sighed. "It's so lonely being a universal special case."

"If you're feeling left out, I could always use a nickname for you as well," Varric said jovially. " _Gabby_."

"So help me, Varric, I will pike you."

Varric chuckled, then repeated, with the exact same inflection he'd had the first time, "So. Sparky."

Kazar sighed. They were walking the Wounded Coast, Kazar trailing behind the party proper. They had seemed to be content to forget he was there for the most part, until Varric had called back to him. "What?"

"What's your plan when you get to Kirkwall?"

"None of your business."

"Ah. So you don't have one."

" _None of your business_."

"Have you ever been to Kirkwall?"

"No." He knew just enough to know that was the name of the city in the valley. After a moment of pointed silence, Kazar relented. "Why?"

"I was just wondering how you were going to handle the Templar problem."

A memory of Ser Greagoir pressing his sword up against the back of his neck came unbidden to his mind, but he shoved it aside. "What are you talking about?"

Varric and Hawke exchanged a look. Then, Varric eyed him over his shoulder. "You have no idea what you're in for, do you?"

"Would someone start making sense, please?"

Hawke turned to address him, now walking backwards as she led the party, and that looked like a good way for her to plunge into a ravine. "Let's put it like this. You were Circle-bred, right?"

Kazar stiffened, reminded that people knew things about him now because of the Blight. "Yeah? What of it?"

"Well, Anders always talks about how the Templars in a Circle are constantly watching you, waiting for you to slip up. Does that sound about right?"

"Yes."

"Kirkwall's like that, except it's an entire city."

"Oh."

"You see why I asked," Varric said easily.

"Well…" Kazar glanced at the two currently silent companions, and his gaze landed on Merrill, who had pointedly ignored him since he walked into camp. "Where's Merrill staying?"

"Not stalking her, hm?" Isabela hummed, and Kazar wanted to lob a chunk of ice at the back of her head.

"She's also an apostate," he snapped. "How's _she_ avoiding the 'Templar problem'?"

For some reason, Varric chuckled.

"It's not that hard," Merrill said stiffly, "if you're careful about who sees you casting. And I would _appreciate_ it if you all did not speak about me as if I'm not here."

"Our mistake," Kazar said. "You've been such a delightful conversationalist."

"I'm not talking to you, Kazar. No one wants you here. Go home."

By the Fade, what had happened to the cheerful waif who had once thought he was grumpy because he had a thorn in his foot?

"Merrill is under my protection," Hawke said. " _You_ are not." She crossed her arms, still walking backwards. "Which means I should probably warn you… you mess with my ducklings, and I go mama bear all over your ass."

"That metaphor doesn't make sense."

"I'm saying that I've got one rule for dealing with my team." She stopped walking, and the rest of them followed suit. "I don't know what, exactly, your business is in Kirkwall, and I don't honestly care. But if something you do puts anyone I care about in danger—like, say, if you draw the Templars into the Alienage and that puts Merrill at risk?—I am going to personally make the rest of your suddenly much shorter life a horror story of suffering and terror."

There was something about the way she said that… with absolute conviction in her capability of doing exactly that, which had his hair standing on end.

"Does that make enough _sense_ for you?" The steady look she leveled at him hinted at a darkness and intensity unmatched by all but the most dangerous of people. Her stare had the same black force that the likes of Percival Cousland had, and all that usually hidden underneath a chipper, almost air-headed exterior.

It was kind of terrifying.

Slowly, Kazar nodded.

Hawke grinned and clapped her hands together. "Splendid!" She turned forward, the sense of threat fluttering away just like that… but now that he'd seen it firsthand, Kazar had difficulty forgetting it.

He suspected that was probably the point.

"We can probably put you up in the Kirkwall Alienage," she chattered, resuming their trek. "If you're staying a while, anyway. I assume you are staying a while?"

"Uh, yeah," he mumbled.

"Shouldn't be too bad there, if you keep your head down. Like Varric said, there's a bit of a Templar problem in the city. Makes sense, given the much worse maleficar problem."

Kazar missed a step, and was glad no one was watching him to see it. "What maleficar problem, exactly?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. Kirkwall is _rampant_ with evil mages." She poked a thumb over her shoulder. "Imagine this: Merrill is one of the more _sane_ ones."

"I'm still right here, Hawke!" Merrill said, throwing her hands in the air.

"Honestly," Hawke breezed on, "it may be easier for everyone if you just turn yourself into the Gallows right now and save the Templars the trouble."

"The… Gallows?" Kazar said, not sure he wanted to know. "What in the name of the Creators is 'the Gallows'?"

"The Circle in Kirkwall." She shrugged and glanced over her shoulder at him. "It's not quite as bad as the name suggests."

" _What_?!" Merrill sputtered. "Hawke!"

"Here we go again," Isabela sighed.

"How could you _say_ that?!"

"Merrill, we've been over this–"

"I can't believe you still think it's a good idea to put mages there!"

Hawke spun around again, this time to give Merrill a raised eyebrow to end all raised eyebrows. "The Templars treat the mages who actually behave themselves just fine, and it's certainly better than letting the ones who have no control start tearing holes in the Veil all over Kirkwall."

"But if they don't know what they're doing–"

"Then they need to _learn_ ," Hawke said firmly. "Look, I know you and Anders don't like it. I don't like it, either. But there is _more than enough_ madness going on in Kirkwall with just the blighted Qunari without throwing a bunch of rogue mages who can't control their own power into the mix!" Her gaze flickered over to Kazar. " _You_ can control your power, right?"

"Yeah," Kazar said, hoping it didn't sound as blatantly false to her as it did to him. "No tearing random holes in the Veil for me."

"I don't like forcing mages to live on that island either," Hawke said, addressing Merrill with the patient conviction of one who had explained this before. "But it keeps them safe and sane, and that's more than can be said about the rest of this bloody city."

Merrill pressed her lips together and looked away, and that seemed to be the end of that argument. Hawke turned forward once again, the atmosphere a bit more oppressive than it had been before.

"So..." Varric broke the silence with a near sigh. "Rivaini. How about that game of Wicked Grace the other night?"

And like a turned tide, Isabela and Varric filled the silence with idle chatter about a card game, easing the tension by refusing to acknowledge that it had ever existed. Kazar envied that... he was still trying to chase that whole chilling conversation out of his mind.

Hawke was dangerous... he'd known that. Of course he had: anyone who had ever seen her wield that halberd knew it. But this introduced a completely different kind of danger.

She was a Templar sympathizer.

Granted, she wouldn't be the first one of _those_ he'd dealt with. Alistair had been pretty fast to threaten throwing him in the nearest Circle during the Blight. But Alistair had also been his comrade-in-arms. A fellow Grey Warden. Their tiny team had gone through the Fade and back together. In some cases, _literally_.

Hawke, on the other hand, owed him nothing. If he stepped a single foot out of line—much less revealed the nature of what he _really_ was—she would not hesitate about calling the Templars down upon him. And as soon as that happened, they would know who he was and what had happened during the Battle of Denerim, and then he'd be dead or Tranquil before he could so much as invoke Grey Warden immunity.

And Hawke would count that as a good thing, because, to her, he was just another mage who'd lost control and gotten himself turned into an abomination. And if he fought back? He could take her, if he had enough distance, but then there would be a number of her allies to contend with, one of whom had an inborn resistance to magic and an enormous crossbow.

He found himself glancing sidelong at Merrill. Suddenly, the fact that his fellow mage was following this woman took on a new, more worrying aspect. Sure, Hawke apparently knew about Merrill's abilities, to the point where she'd made it something of a pet project to dissuade the other elf.

But what if Merrill slipped? What if she ended up with a demon in her, too? Would Hawke even hesitate to send her to the Gallows? Or would she go straight to chopping off Merrill's head for her own good?

In that light, his own resolution to dissuade Merrill before it got to that point became more pressing. He turned his face forward and wondered how, exactly, he was supposed to go about _doing_ that.

Varric and Isabela still bantered idly as Hawke led them along the winding Wounded Coast path.

And then, they rounded a curve in the mountainside, and the towering form of Kirkwall emerged from the mists like a monster out of a storybook.

Kazar had only seen it from above, where it looked like nothing but a series of stone boxes all piled on top of each-other. In his darker moments, he'd perched up on the overlook above the Dalish camp and contemplated the glorying feeling of releasing a firestorm within those cramped, high walls, just to see the way the heat would interact with the potential of a gigantic oven.

Such Pride-filled fantasies did not find him now. A view from a distance did not do the city justice… from the ground, the city _loomed_ , hunched along the coast like a vicious bear two seconds from eating your face. Stone edifices reflected the dull morning sunlight in dull grays and browns, and the shadows of its tiers stretched across the waterfront. A waterfront over which, Kazar realized, there were giant statues of elves hunched in despair.

Kirkwall looked... miserable. And claustrophobic. Who in their right mind would _willingly_ live here?

Well, he would, for one. But at least it was arguable that he wasn't in his right mind. Demon-shattered and all that.

There was a massive set of gates ahead, arching six times their height above them. A pair of guards were stationed at the gates, and they smiled and greeted Hawke by name as she passed. She waved absently to them and led them into the city.

"Claustrophobic" did not _begin_ to describe the interior. After three-odd years of mountain air and open spaces, the towering stone walls made him want to start shaking them down. His demonic side was protesting something awful at the impression of being caged in, and the Dalish-Warden-mage side wasn't faring much better. Kazar held his tongue, empathizing with every time Meila had ever complained about feeling constricted inside stone walls.

He glanced up to find that Merrill was watching him, chewing her lip. Of course, as soon as his eyes met hers, she pointedly looked away again.

Hawke led them through a series of narrow thoroughfares, and then out onto a broader one and down a wide set of stairs. They walked down a street lined with market stalls, where more people greeted Hawke by name. Just how many people did this woman _know_ , exactly?

More narrow alleyways, and another, cramped staircase down, and then they emerged into a square with a single towering tree in the center: the only sign of plant life he'd seen since entering the city.

A splash of color made him pause, and he found himself gravitating toward the tree. The base of it was painted in a beautiful arborous design of red and white. Kazar stepped up to the massive trunk and pressed a hand against the paint, as if that would somehow bring him closer to the spirit of the people who had created it.

Under his hand, all he felt was cool paint on rough, old wood. So much for that.

"Well, this is it," Hawke said unnecessarily. "Alienage sweet alienage."

He glanced up, and sure enough, there were elves everywhere. Young, old, sun-burned, and emaciated. Many of them were staring curiously at him, but Hawke's presence seemed to be enough to keep them at a distance.

"Thank you, Hawke," he said, because it seemed like the thing to say.

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't lived here." Hawke crossed her arms and looked around the square like it was a problem that needed solving. "Now, to get you a place to stay..."

"I don't need–"

"Oh, you're going to be living on the street? Should I bring you to Darktown instead?"

Kazar had no idea what a "Darktown" was, but it didn't sound much more pleasant than "the Gallows."

When he didn't answer, she nodded as if she'd expected as much. "How did we do this last time, Varric?"

"The Alienage elder," the dwarf supplied.

"Ah, right." She pointed at one of the bystanders. "You. Go get the hay-wren."

" _Hahren_ , Hawke," Merrill said with a soft sigh.

"Right, that."

It said much that the elf scurried to jump to Hawke's command. Kazar wondered whether it was just a reaction to Hawke herself, or whether the elves here were like this with all humans.

He'd had contact with Alienage elves most of his life, what with the little community of Alienage elves among the Circle Tower apprentices… one of many such groups that he had never bothered to fit into. He'd never really cared to get to know another elf until he'd met a fellow Warden recruit named Finian Tabris.

Knowing Fin had been like knowing a songbird that had gotten out of its cage: all bright and full of song, but also not hesitating to peck the eyes out of its former captors. Back then, Kazar had thought that Fin must be what Alienage elves who hadn't been cowed by the Templars were like: chafing under the injustice of it and daringly-but-cheerfully working to prove all stereotypes wrong.

Then, he'd met Pol, and he'd wondered. And then there was that pair of city elves who had joined the Dalish last year, and they were somewhere in between the two. Now, looking at the meek way the elves avoided Hawke's group, he suspected skittish, bumbling Pol was the most accurate sample set.

Kazar wasn't a stranger to being a second-class citizen. He was an elf and a mage. He'd grown up in a tower that was set on an island, specifically to keep him away from the rest of society like someone in quarantine for an infectious disease.

But something in him had always resisted being labeled as anything but the best. He'd scratched and torn his way up the heap for every bit of respect he could get, despite being too _young_ , or being an _elf_ , or whatever else. He'd made sure everyone knew that he wasn't going to be tread upon, and anyone who tried would get burned feet. He'd had the proud, strong spirit of the Dalish even back then, even if he hadn't known it.

Footsteps approached, and he realized that his Pride was simmering at dangerous levels, and shoved it down with a few self-depreciating thoughts about where that proud spirit had led him to.

"Ah. Hawke." An old elven woman was stepping up to her, looking dainty and frail next to the human's much more solid form. "I have not had the chance to thank you for driving out those ruffians last month."

Hawke waved her hand dismissively, as if she was addressed about past heroic deeds every day. "I'm not here for that. I've brought a gift." Kazar yelped as she reached back, grabbed his staff, and physically propelled him forward to stand beside them. He sent a warning spark of lightning through the staff just before Hawke let go, because _really_. She could have just gestured.

The _hahren_ was looking at him curiously. Her eyes were not nearly as piercing as Marethari's. "You are… from the clan on Sundermount?" And there, her glance flickered over to Merrill, who was fidgeting with her scarf. "What brings you to Kirkwall?" She sounded apprehensive, but kept her tone polite. Knowing that Merrill was likely their only extended experience with the clan, Kazar couldn't blame her.

"Real estate," Hawke answered for him.

Kazar pointedly stepped between the two women and gave Hawke a glare. "I can speak for myself, thanks." Then, he turned to the _hahren_ , whose eyebrows had shot up like he'd just baited a bereskarn. "I'm… the First of the Sabrae Clan. I have business in the city, and need somewhere to stay."

Given the fact that his name was apparently reasonably well known as a Blight Warden and (hopefully less so) as an abomination, he barely managed not to reveal his name to a square full of curious ears.

"I see," the _hahren_ said. "So, how long will you be staying, then?"

Kazar found himself looking at Merrill, who was staring at her hands as she played with her scarf. "Probably quite a while. This business is very stubborn."

"I see." And from the way she looked between the two Dalish, she probably did. "Welcome then, child. I am _Hahren_ Esterel. I think we have an available living space, if you've the coin to pay for it."

Kazar inwardly cursed. The assorted odds in his bag wouldn't be nearly enough to pay for a house. He had very little experience with money, and even he knew that.

"I've got it covered," Hawke said easily. At his shocked look, she shrugged. "If I'm helping, I might as well _help_."

"I don't need your charity!" he snapped, his temper sparking.

"Seriously. You. Living in the sewers. It'd be as easy as me walking away."

He bit back an acidic response, because she had a point. He couldn't let his Pride get in the way. But that didn't mean he'd act the charity case. "I owe you, then."

That gave her pause. "Really? Huh." She glanced back at her companions. Varric and Isabela were both grinning. "Usually, people just thank me and leave. It's okay if you do that, you know."

"Yeah, no. I'll pay you back… somehow." The hows were a little shaky at the moment, but he couldn't take any less than that.

"Well, okay. Good luck with that." She sounded about as confident in his ability to do so as Kazar was. She turned to address Merrill. "I think I'll be heading out, now. Do you want me to punch him once before I go?"

Merrill crossed her arms. "Maybe if you punch yourself, too."

"What did I do?"

"The _Arulin'Holm_ , Hawke? The priceless heirloom of my people? Which _you're keeping_?"

"Oh. Right. That." Hawke shifted her pack, which had the obvious shape of a wooden box within. "Tell you what. I'll give myself some really mean looks in the mirror tonight. Does that help?"

"Not funny, Hawke." Merrill spun on her heel and stormed away, letting herself into an apartment on the corner and slamming the door behind her.

"I was being serious," Hawke said in a small voice.

Varric patted her on the back. "Somehow, I don't think Daisy will get over you dashing her dreams quite that easily."

Hawke actually looked discouraged by that fact. Now ignoring everything else, she motioned for her two companions to follow her and started out of the Alienage, "We'll just have to make it up to her. The floor is now open for please-forgive-me-for-being-a-jerk gift ideas."

"A new scarf?" Isabela said.

"A good book," Varric said.

"Jewelry. That girl doesn't have near enough sparkle on her."

"A cat."

"A cat, Varric?" Hawke broke in. "Do you know the fit Anders would pitch if I got Merrill a cat and not him?"

"Exactly. Think of how grateful he'll be when you then turn around and give him one as well. You'll be an absolute goddess in his eyes."

Isabela chuckled. "You're claiming that he doesn't believe that already?"

Their voices faded as they headed up the stairs out of the Alienage, carrying their banter with them.

Kazar found himself staring after them, caught in a general state of bafflement that was getting increasingly familiar... and he suspected would only get moreso, now that he had some sort of proximity to this strange Hawke creature. "Huh. Goodbye to you, too, lady."

A chuckle pulled his attention back to the elder. The _hahren_ nodded in the direction where the trio had just disappeared. "Lady Hawke is... like that." She turned a gentle smile to him. "Now, First... would you like to see your new home?"


	19. Don't Bother Bartering

The apartment was, in all honesty, a dump. It was a small, stark, two-room dwelling that had all of a table and two stools in the first room, and a trunk and a cot in the second. It took about six steps to cross from one side of the unit to the other. The single window, which was in the bedroom, looked out onto a wall, where the apartment was located in a narrow alley just off from the main square. The dwelling was cut into the second story of Kirkwall's high stone walls, the front door reachable by a rickety wooden walkway which shared three other dwellings, yet was somehow wide enough for about half a person. All in all, his new home was a barren, bleak little hole in the wall.

And he was a little overwhelmed by it.

It was a cagey, brown little den, but it was _his_. All his. No sharing with other apprentices, or other Wardens, or even the rest of the Dalish. He'd never had a space that was just his own, where he could make his own rules and have _things_ and feel _safe._ Once the _hahren_ had left, he spent a good hour just pacing the two rooms, feeling the cool stone under his bare feet and getting control of himself.

There was more reason than just that to feel dazed, of course. Just as he'd never had a place of his own before, he'd never been alone, either. And that part was pretty nerve-wracking. He was utterly, completely alone here.

He'd grown up in a Circle, where everything he did was part of a schedule. The enchanters directed his studies while the Templars enforced their rules. Even First Enchanter Irving, who had always favored him, had been a source of guidance and protection, and Jowan had been constantly at his heels to back him up even at his most temperamental.

And then there had been Duncan and the other Wardens. Meila, and Garrot Brosca, and Finian Tabris, and Alistair, and Marnan, and Cousland, and Wynne, and Felicity Amell. And Mouse. Once Mouse had started talking to him, he hadn't been alone for a long time.

They were all gone now. Jowan dead, his fellow Wardens scattered back in Ferelden, and his new mentor and clan a long walk up a mountain and an even longer walk back into their trust, with how he'd left.

For the first time in his life, he, and he alone, was calling the shots. He could do whatever he wanted. No one would judge him, or chastise him, or punish him.

Or step in if he got in over his head. Or save him.

He was alone.

He sat down on one of the stools, not surprised to find that it wobbled under him. The empty space inside him was making itself known in a way it hadn't in years.

It had never healed. Over three years later, and he still had a gaping wound in his soul where half of it had been torn out. It was like a scar, except that scars eventually healed over. This was an amputation, and he never felt the loss of half his being more keenly than now, sitting all alone with a new, terrifying path stretched before him.

Part of him wanted to dig into that spot where he'd shoved the pieces of Mouse left behind. It was tempting. Accessing his Pride would make him feel whole again, if only for a short time.

Right. And then he'd start shooting fireballs around the Alienage. Because _that_ would help.

Still, it was hard to resist the urge. Just a little touch…

With a curse, he hopped to his feet and stormed out of the apartment, just to do something other than dwell. He needed to find that market anyway. He needed stuff. Like food. And if the presence of other people kept him from giving into temptation, more's the better.

He was three steps along the wooden walkway outside his apartment before he remembered that he needed to lock the door. With another grumbled curse, he fished the iron key out of his bag. He mentally put "belt pouch" on his list of things to find.

Once the door of his hole was locked, he turned and made his creaking way along the narrow walkway. He passed two other doors before he reached the steep staircase to the ground, and then he nearly tripped and fell when his staff got caught between the risers. Only a reflexive burst of ice magic stuck his feet to the walkway and kept him from faceplanting a story down.

And now his feet were cold and wet. Should have brought shoes.

He extracted himself from the impromptu icy shackles and carefully made his way down the stairs, then wound his way out of the alley. Far above him, the early afternoon sun was shining, but the walls were so tall and the alleys so narrow that it didn't have a hope of reaching the ground. Even emerging from the alley into the broader central square around the _vhenedahl_ , the light barely reached the leaves of the tree.

Kazar's alley was opposite the square from Merrill's door, so he would have to round the trunk of the great tree just to cast a curious peek at her apartment. He wasn't about to give her that satisfaction.

Instead, he took the chance to inspect the tree.

He didn't know much about Alienage traditions. Or anything about them, really. For all that Finian had been good at talking, he'd talked surprisingly little about himself. He'd never mentioned anything about a giant tree in the middle of the Denerim Alienage, so Kazar didn't know whether this was a general city elf culture thing, or a Kirkwall elf thing.

Because it _was_ an elf thing. Seeing the reverence of the paintings and the well-tended tables with votive candles around it, Kazar had no doubt that it was an _important_ elf thing. And small surprise. As if Meila and the elders hadn't drilled the _Vir Tenedhal_ into Kazar's head until he recited it every time he sneezed.

He smiled at the thought and stepped up to press his hand against it. Like that morning, it was just paint on wood. But this wasn't a bad thing. In an alien place, the sensation of rough bark was a touch of familiarity. Just like his tangled root sanctuary up on Sundermount, the elves here built their own sanctuary under the branches of this venerable old tree.

Ha. Trees. Who would have thought, back in the Circle, that he'd one day be soothed by _trees?_

"Are you talking to it?"

Kazar jumped and turned to find a girl peering at him. She had brown hair set in pigtails, and couldn't be much older than Kazar had been when he'd taken his Joining.

"What?" He asked, _just barely_ refraining from snapping. "What do you mean, talking to it?"

She shrugged. "You're Dalish. I don't know. You do things like that, right?"

Okay, what? "Hasn't Merrill lived her for three years? Haven't you learned anything about us from her?"

"Merrill doesn't talk to us much."

…what? Chatty, amiable Merrill hadn't connected with anyone in the community? But… she was Dalish. Community was just about the only thing Dalish _had._ Well, that and a heavy load of tradition.

"There's Arianni, too," the girl continued. "But she doesn't talk about it much. I think she's embarrassed because Feynriel's half-human."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he informed her baldly, though he did note that name. He'd heard it mentioned from time to time, back in the clan. "And no. Dalish don't talk to trees."

"Oh, okay." She blinked. "Then what were you doing?"

He didn't have a good answer to that. "Just… stuff." He took a step away from the tree, for good measure. "Who are you?"

"Lia." As if that was helpful. "They say Hawke brought you in. Did she rescue you, too?"

"Rescue me?"

"That's how I met her… I mean, I didn't really understand at the time. But I think that Keldar really might have hurt me if she hadn't burst in when she did. She does that a lot… bursting into things. It's really amazing to see."

"I… no, she didn't rescue me." He paused. "Well, except for that one time, but my hands were full with a wiggling baby at the time, so I have a perfectly good excuse."

She giggled.

He decided to change the subject. "Where's the nearest market?"

"The Lowtown Bazaar? Not far. Just up the stairs, two rights, and you're there. Daddy never likes me going there alone."

He started walking in the indicated direction, and wasn't even all that surprised when she fell into step beside him. With a mental sigh, he relented. "And why not?"

"Oh, he's just over-protective after the incident with the magistrate's son. I've never had any of the other humans hurt me. A lot of them are really nice! Like Hawke, and her guard friend, Aveline. It must be nice to be able to protect people like that..."

He let her talk while he walked, tuning her out but nodding in appropriate places as he absorbed his surroundings. The human parts of Lowtown seemed a little less dirty and cramped, but not by much. It was good to know, he supposed, that both races were about equal in squalor. United in poverty.

"Is that a staff you're carrying? Are you mage?"

Kazar nearly stumbled, but caught himself and turned in startlement to Lia, who was still watching him with those bright, curious eyes.

For whatever reason, it took him by surprise that someone had noticed his robes and staff and come to the obvious conclusion. It just went to show how rarely that happened, really.

This was a city rife with Templars. Being a mage here was a _bad thing._

"Uh, no. It's just a walking stick."

"Oh. Why do you need a walking stick?"

Ah, shit, he'd never been a very good liar. Think, think… why would someone need a walking stick?

"Leg injury."

"How did that happen?"

"Nearly got it bitten off." Of course, the only thing that came to mind was the Varterral, but that would only lead to more questions, and the idea was to turn her _off_ this subject. "By a bear."

"Oh, okay." She paused. "You've fought a bear before? What are those like up close?"

Glad to be off the subject of his incriminating apostasy, he offered her a short, "Big and hairy," and went back to paying attention to where they were going.

They had just made a turn at the top of a small set of stairs, and then they were looking down onto a line of stalls, which Kazar remembered passing through with Hawke on the way in. Ah, so this must be the aforementioned Lowtown Bazaar.

It certainly was bizarre to him, seeing all these different people in one place, chattering loudly as they traded coin and goods back and forth. Honestly, the idea of markets confused him a little, having grown up in the communal environment of the Circle Tower, and then moving to the equally communal Wardens and Dalish.

He remembered, during the Blight, walking through the Orzammar Commons with Felicity Amell and barely listening as she explained the concept of economy, and cost, and labor, and all sorts of things that he, a cloistered mage, had never really encountered before. At the time, he'd been too annoyed with her constant nanny-goating to actually pay attention, and he regretted that as he struggled to recall some of her points now.

Spirits, he'd been an obnoxious, selfish brat back then. Would it have _killed_ him to care about what was going on around him, for once?

He wandered along the market stalls, keeping half an ear on Lia to make sure she didn't, in fact, get abducted (because that was the ironic sense of humor fate had sometimes, and wouldn't _that_ just be a fantastic thing to punctuate his first day in the Alienage?). She skittered between stalls, pointing out trinkets she liked and exclaiming over a baker's cart.

Kazar's own stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was here to try to find food and other necessities.

He found out quickly enough that the merchants didn't take straight-up barter like the Dalish did, and some even seemed amused that he would try. He found someone willing to buy a couple of his carved trinkets off him in exchange for a couple coppers, but one look at Lia's face indicated what an awful deal that was. When Kazar tried to barter him up, the merchant just shrugged, called him a greedy knife-ear, and moved onto the next customer.

For the first time in three years, Kazar kind of hated being an elf.

He slumped against one wall, exhausted and with nothing to show for it. Lia wandered off into the crowd, and he didn't even have the energy to chase after her. He just sat and watched the passage of people up and down the massive staircase that led to the upper parts of the city.

Among the strange, stale scents of the city, his nose caught the familiar aroma of boiling herbs, and his attention was drawn to a stall at the foot of the grand staircase, where a well-dressed blond woman had just put a kettle onto a firepit behind her stall. Her table was strewn with various vials and plant cuttings.

Kazar was so happy for that little bit of familiarity that he found himself wandering over. Elfroot, spindleweed, embrium... all the standard Free Marches herbs that Marethari had spent the last three years trying with marginal success to teach him how to use.

"You are perhaps interested in my wares?" said a carefully cultured accent, and he looked up to see the herbalist regarding him curiously.

He couldn't resist a wry shake of the head. "Sorry, no. Herbs are pretty much the one thing I _do_ have right now."

"Oh." She stepped gracefully up to the counter. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in selling some of them, would you?"

That got his attention. "What, are you serious?"

She waved a hand over the handful of herbs on the table. "As it happens, my supply of ingredients is running low, and my main supplier is rather... distractible. I could certainly use the supplement."

It hadn't occurred to him that the supply of herbs Master Ilen had sent with him might have other uses than bumbling through potion-making himself. "And you'd pay money for something you can just go outside the city and pick for free?"

At that she chuckled gently. "You speak as if anyone could go out and brave the wildlife and vagabonds on the coast."

He blinked and took a second look at her. With her well-made gown, her cloth slippers, her well-conditioned hair, and her utter lack of weapons or magic... yeah, she wouldn't last one minute against the nasty creatures outside these walls. He supposed the claustrophobic walls did have a purpose in keeping things out after all.

He snorted at his own ignorance, then started digging through his pack for the herbal supplies. "I've only got a handful with me, but I could probably go out and pick more for you, if you need it."

"That would be wonderful, if you wouldn't mind."

He shrugged as he set the herbs on the table. "Honestly, give me a few days in town and I'll be glad for the excuse to leave these walls for a few hours."

Her smile was warm. "Yes, I suppose it must chafe for one of your kind." As he stiffened in the beginnings of indignance, she said, "A Dalish elf, I mean."

He relaxed because, yeah, that was about right. Meila had always hated places like these, and he couldn't say he was very fond of them either.

"I'm Lady Elegant." She sorted through his herbs and started pulling out silvers instead of coppers, leading Kazar to hope that this was a fairer deal than whatever the last merchant had offered him. "What might I call you?"

Trust her or not?

Pfft. Yeah, right. If the Templars got the slightest whiff of a known abomination in the city, he'd be so buried in holy smites that his head would spin clear off his shoulders.

After a moment's hesitation, he said, "Just 'the Dalish elf' is fine." Her eyebrows rose, but she didn't comment on it.

"Very well. It is nice to meet you. Would thirty silver be fair for the lot?"

"I... honestly have no idea."

"It's not bad," said a third voice behind him, and another woman came up to stand beside him. She crossed her arms and gave Elegant the look of a lecturing enchanter. "But I'd personally ask for fifty."

"Really, Lirene," Elegant tsked. "You simply heard his Fereldan accent and are playing favorites again."

Lirene, meanwhile, turned to fix her tired eyes on Kazar. "Don't let her unassuming manner fool you. Elegant is a shrewd businesswoman, though fair enough if you keep your wits about you."

"How about forty, then?" Elegant proposed.

"Forty-five, and not a copper less. You know we both need you to stock up your supplies, and it would not do to dissuade a source of ingredients by devaluing his stock."

Elegant sighed, "Very well. Forty-five silvers it is." She neatly counted out the applicable coins and set them on the counter.

"What," Kazar said when he could get a word in edgewise, "just happened?"

"I'm Lirene," said the older woman, as if he hadn't picked up on that. "I run Lirene's Fereldan Imports across the square, and I happen to be one of Lady Elegant's regular customers."

Gently, Elegant supplied, "She purchases my potions and then resells them under cost to Fereldan refugees in need."

Kazar was having a hard time keeping up. "You run a Fereldan charity?"

"It is not a charity," Lirene said firmly. "However, I do take it upon myself to see that those hit hardest by the Blight in Ferelden are looked after. Someone certainly has to."

He turned and actually _studied_ this woman.

She was older... but in a tired, careworn way that, honestly, reminded him a lot of Wynne. Her eyes had bags under them, and her coarse clothing was simple and full of dust. This woman was not some high-class lady like the herbalist... she was in the same dingy boat as the rest of the people in Lowtown, and yet she still gave time and money to helping other people.

It was utterly baffling. But... after seeing the destruction the Blight had wreaked on Ferelden, he had to agree with her.

"That's really... amazing. Thank you for doing that."

Her eyebrows arched. "While I appreciate the sentiment, there is no need for you to express such things. It may be taken by some as a suspicious turn of phrase."

He looked away to hide his reaction. _Shit_.

"Be that as it may," Lady Elegant cut in, "I really will pay you for any further herbs you bring in. Does that seem like a fair deal?"

He turned to her and nodded. "Absolutely. I certainly wouldn't mind the money... for food and stuff."

"If you are looking to stock up on supplies," Lirene said, "I can perhaps help with that."

He dared to glance at her, only to see her looking over Elegant's potion stock. "I thought you said you didn't run a charity."

"I don't, but I do run a _shop_. If you have coin and barter, I think I can certainly help you out, for a fair price."

He nodded slowly. "I... think I'll do that. Thank you. Again."

"It is no trouble." She turned to fix a stern eye on him. "You are obviously an elf of means and resources that others do not have. All I ask in return is that you pay any kindnesses received forward. Can you do that?"

Pay kindness forward. A concept he would have scoffed about once. But now, alone and destitute in a hostile city, he found he could appreciate just what that meant. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Good."


	20. Lay Low (Or Find an Intimidating Friend)

Kazar saw surprisingly little of Merrill over the next two weeks… which was probably just as well, because now that he was here, he had _no idea_ what he was going to do about her. For all his bluster about dragging her back by force, he was fast realizing that it would take far more than a few vine ropes and shows of temper to make her give up Kirkwall.

The few times he spotted Merrill passing through the Alienage, she was walking with one of Hawke's companions... namely Varric or Isabela. A little asking around confirmed what Lia had said... she didn't really interact with the other elves much. He imagined her huddling in her home every night, working on that mirror, and something in him wanted to just start smashing things.

Meanwhile, he made it a point to do the exact opposite. He'd never been particularly sociable, but if there was one thing the Dalish had taught him, it was the power of shared history. What began with explaining to Lia and a few of her friends the significance of the _vhenedahl_ growing in the middle of the Alienage soon became him spinning tales to a candlelit circle of nearly a hundred elves, young and old, expanding on what Paivel had taught him of the greatest heroes of the elven people.

It was a little terrifying, when he thought about it, to have that many people hanging onto his every word, but it was also pretty thrilling, and not always in a good way. A couple nights, he had to cut the stories short just so he could go home and do a couple meditations to keep his Pride down.

Every couple days, he would leave the city and prowl around the coast for herbal ingredients. His hard-earned Dalish stealth skills came in handy for avoiding the various bandits and Qunari, and selling these herbs to Elegant proved to be a good steady source of income, at least as far as feeding his Grey Warden appetite was concerned.

Slowly, he settled into something like a place in the Alienage. He was an outsider, sure, but he was also a curiosity, and almost a source of reverence. Having never really had much pride in his heritage growing up, he didn't really understand it, but he did remember the awe Finian Tabris had displayed after meeting Meila for the first time, so he wasn't surprised.

What he did not expect, however, was that sharing the Dalish stories would make him a target within the Alienage. Apparently, there was a Qunari movement sweeping the elves his age, and so he found himself cornered multiple times by converts to the Qun. Sometimes, they just wanted to share the philosophy with him, but, other times, they actually tried to beat him up.

And, well, Kazar was part demon. He couldn't _not_ defend himself.

So yeah, while most of the Alienage had settled on calling him "The First," the Qunari converts in the Alienage started calling him " _Saarebas_ ," which was not a nickname he'd missed.

He wasn't sure how the Templars eventually found out... whether one of the Qunari converts reported him or whether someone had noticed the elf with a staff walking around and had drawn the obvious conclusion. But they did. Because of course they did.

He came back from one of his herb gathering expeditions early one evening to find the Alienage abuzz with nervous energy. He'd learned that it got like that every once in a while, whenever there were smugglers or doglords or whatever doing anything shady nearby. The elves had long since learned to keep their noses down whenever that happened, but that didn't stop them from fretting and gossiping in equal measure.

He generally tried to stay out of it, so he just started through the main square under the branches of the _vhenedahl_ , only to yelp as his elbow was roughly grabbed and he was pulled back behind the massive trunk.

He whirled, ready to give his assailant what-for, only to freeze when he saw it was Arianni.

He'd heard her name around the clan. Ran away to fall in love with a human, they'd said. Raising a half-human child, they'd said. Lost to the Way, they'd said.

Kazar didn't know anything about her beyond that. She'd left the Dalish before he'd been _born_ , much less before he'd joined the Sabrae Clan. What's more, since he'd arrived in Kirkwall, she'd been about as scarce as Merrill had been, and Kazar had a feeling that this avoidance had everything to do with him.

But here she was now, all _vallaslin_ ed up and looking right at him with the boldness one would expect of a Dalish, if weathered by time.

"Uh, what?" he said uncertainly. Diplomatic, he was not.

She pressed her lips together briefly, then whispered, "There are Templars at your apartment right now."

" _What_?"

"I'm not sure how they know about you, but they do. They came to my place first to ask about you. I have to assume it's because we're both Dalish."

Kazar twisted her hand away and took a step back, his temper spiking. "What did you tell them?"

"The truth," she said baldly. "That I knew absolutely nothing about you."

Well... right.

"It has not deterred them, though. They have been asking the other elves, and I think someone's been talking."

Those fucking Qunari converts.

"And so why are you warning me? What's in this for you?"

She blinked, steady gaze flickering slightly in a gesture of uncertainty that only three years among the Dalish had taught him to recognize. "My son is in the Gallows."

"Okay?"

"He writes to me, sometimes, and tells me about what it's like in there. Sometimes, I regret that I ever let them take him."

"Then why did you let them?"

"I thought it best for his safety, if not his happiness. At least at the time." She lowered her head. "Feynriel always wanted to stay free. I suppose if I can't give him that, then it's the least I can do to afford another the courtesy."

Slowly, Kazar nodded. On the one hand, he felt a spike of anger on her son's behalf for her letting them take him away… but on the other, she seemed genuinely sorry about it. Everyone made mistakes, and Kazar wasn't in any position to be lobbing stones in that department, but still. Her fucking _son._

That said, he had more pressing things to worry about, so he stepped back and turned his attention to the Templar threat.

He peeked around the tree trunk toward his apartment. Sure enough, there was the glint of Templar armor leaning against the alley wall next to a pile of splintered wood that had once been his door. Distantly, he could hear the sound of other Templars rooting around inside it.

Well, so much for it being a safe place.

"Fuck. Where am I supposed to go now?"

"There is one elf that the Templars never disturb," Arianni said softly. At Kazar's curious look, she nodded toward a door near the water's edge. One where a certain _other_ Dalish elf lived. "I'm not sure what sort of protections Lady Hawke's put on her, but they have not so much as knocked on that door all afternoon."

Kazar stiffened, because damn it, it had to be Merrill, didn't it? After all the bad blood between them, could he seriously go crawling to her now and beg for amnesty? Swallow his Pride? Well, it was either that or as good as turn himself in, and he had long ago vowed to _never_ let a Circle cage him again.

He nodded his thanks to Arianni and made his swift way across the Alienage, thankful that the gigantic tree blocked the view of Merrill's door from his.

He knocked sharply on the door, and breathed a sigh when he heard a startled, "Coming!" from inside. This was promptly followed by a crash and an "Oh, whoops!" and he had to bite back a smile.

Wait, what?

Before he could analyze that, the door opened, and bright green eyes blinked out at him. A moment later, those eyes darkened, and only the swiftly applied obstruction of his sylvanwood staff stopped the door from slamming right on his nose.

"Merrill, wait!"

"I don't want to talk to you!"

"Please, Merrill!"

That surprised her enough to crack the door open again, revealing narrowed eyes. "Did you just say 'please'?"

"Uh... yeah?"

"Must be serious, I suppose." A pause. "Come in."

A little flabbergasted by her abrupt change of mind, he nonetheless gratefully slipped inside when she opened the door.

Her apartment was bigger than his, and she'd had time to accumulate a few personal touches. A wall hanging here, a carved halla there… it wasn't much, but it did help offset the starkness of the hovel.

He shut the door behind him, and it felt like a distressingly flimsy barrier between himself and his imminent imprisonment and Tranquilling.

"Well?"

Oh, right. And there was a pissed off woman on this side of the door, too.

He turned to her, only to face down a pair of crossed arms and thinned lips. The look might have been intimidating on anyone with a single threatening bone in their body.

"The Templars are after me," Kazar admitted, figuring there was no point in lying.

"Oh. Is that what the fuss outside is about?"

"Apparently." He leaned back against the door. "They seriously don't bother you?"

She shrugged, her attempts to look stern fading into genuine concern. "They didn't hurt you or anything, did they?"

"No, they didn't see me. Can I hide in here until they leave?"

Her expression hardened again, though now it was closer to a pout. "Are you serious? You discount me and my life choices for three years, and now that you need something from me, you come crawling back with your tail tucked between your legs?"

"Well, let's be honest here. I'm still discounting your life choices."

She pressed her hands to her face and made a sound like a muffled scream. "You're so... _frustrating_! Why do I do this? Why did I even let you in?"

"Because at some part deep, deep down, you care enough to not want me to get dragged off by Templars?"

"UGH!" She whirled and stomped over to her firepit and started poking harshly at the coals. Not sure if that was an answer to whether he could stay or not, Kazar remained against the door.

After a minute of that, she glanced up with narrowed eyes. "Well? What are you waiting for? Sit down." She pointed at her table.

And so he did, biting back any harsh comments because he did not, in fact, want to be kicked back out onto the street. He sat, and, a moment later, she slammed a kettle down on the table. "Tea?" she bit out, and then thrust a hot cup into his hands before he could reply.

"You don't have to-" he started, but she only said an overly loud "Drink up!" before stalking off through a curtained doorway into another room.

Kazar sighed. Raising the teacup to his lips seemed like defeat.

That was, until he took a sip, and the sharp, herbal taste of the tea flooded his tongue. The _familiar_ taste, and it actually made him a little homesick for Sundermount.

When Merrill came back into the room, she caught him staring down into his cup and gave him a baffled frown.

"It tastes just like the tea Marethari makes."

She nodded, and the heaviness of her expression eased. "I know."

He looked back down into his cup and took another sip, and it did wonders to help him release the tension he hadn't even realized he'd had.

He heard Merrill settling down across the table from him, and glanced up to see her nursing her own cup.

"Thank you for doing this," he mumbled.

She sighed. "It's fine." There was little bite to her tone, but still plenty of bitterness. "You don't need to thank me for doing what any decent person would do."

"Even though you're mad at me."

There was a pause, Merrill spinning her cup. "Not mad, really. Just really annoyed."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." He leaned back in his seat, settling his head back against the wall. "Or I used to. I made a hobby of annoying Templars back in the Circle."

"No wonder they're hunting you." Kazar cut a sideways glance at her. Was that _levity_? "I'm surprised Marethari hasn't smacked you silly, too."

It _was_. It was a tiny opening, but he was happy to take it. Sagely, he said, "Marethari is a woman of impossible patience."

"Mm." She took a sip and looked away. "Look, you don't have to answer but... How is she?"

"She's fine. Worried about you, but otherwise her usual self."

Her eyes snapped up. "She's worried about me?"

"Are you seriously surprised?"

"Well... no. I mean... I don't want her to worry. She shouldn't need to worry."

"Well, she does. Think about it. You're dealing with the artifact that corrupted Meila and Tamlen. So of course she's worried."

She looked over at him with furrowed brows. "Is that why she sent you?"

He choked mid-swallow and Merrill waited him out while he coughed. Once he caught his breath, he managed, "Actually... she didn't want me to go."

"What?" She set her cup on the table and leaned over to peer at him. "What do you mean? Why are you here, if not at her request?"

He... didn't really have a response for that. Not one he could admit to with her eyes pinning him like that.

After a minute of him not answering, she sat back. "Okay, fine. Don't answer. And here I thought you weren't being difficult today."

"I'm not being..." she gave him a _look_ , and he amended, "...well, not on purpose! Look, it's complicated, okay?"

"What could possibly be complicated about 'you're spying on me'? I mean, if you're not doing it for the Keeper, I have to assume it's a Grey Warden thing, except Anders has barely mentioned anything about the mirror at all other than his usual vitriol for blood magic."

Wait, _Anders_ was a... no, that was a topic for another time. "This isn't a Warden thing, either."

She stood and threw her hands in the air. "Then what is it, Kazar? What could possibly possess you to leave the clan behind and live in a city full of Templars?!"

"You did the same thing!"

"Yes, but not because I wanted to! I _had_ to leave! The Keeper gave me no other choice, remember? Which is pretty hypocritical considering she took _you_ _in_!"

And there was his temper. Hello righteous anger, it's been a while. He took a breath to keep it down. "I was always honest about what I was."

"And that makes it okay, does it? Admit it, Kazar, you're dangerous! Don't think I've forgotten that time you nearly shoved me off the cliff!"

He found himself staring at his knuckles, which were turning white around his cup. "I _know_."

"But when I accept the help of a single spirit—not making any deals in the process, mind— _I'm_ the one she turns away? How is that fair?!"

"It's not like she wanted it to be that way!" He was surprised to find his hands shaking, little sparks of lightning flickering around them. "You were always the favorite, and you _still fucking are_." He could feel his irritation over this whole mess rising, and was helpless to stop it. "That's the only reason she let me go at all, because if I have the _slightest chance_ of saving you–"

" _That's_ why you're here? To _save me_?" The outrage in her voice only fed his own.

"Of _course_ that's why I'm here!" He slammed the cup down, and he could feel the static electricity crackling around him. He stood up and faced her down glare for glare. "You expect me to sit up on Sundermount while you're down here making the _exact same_ mistakes I did?"

"Except for the fact that I'm _not_!" She stamped her foot. "How many times do I have to go through this? I didn't make any deals, I'm not letting the spirit possess me, and the only reason I want to fix the mirror is to _cleanse_ it!"

"That's how they get you!" He waved his arms, as if to encompass the world in his gesture. "They find something that's important to you, and they use it to _court_ you, until you don't even realize that they're whispering into your ear anymore!"

Her chin jutted up stubbornly. "Maybe that's how it worked for you, but that's not going to happen to me."

"You're right," Kazar hissed. "Because I'm not going to let it."

They glared at one another for a full minute, and, to her credit, Merrill matched him stubbornness for stubbornness. It might have gone on like that for a while, too, if not for the front door cracking open.

Both mages instantly had their staves in hand, Kazar still spitting off sparks in his irritation.

The dwarf poking his head through the door raised his eyebrows. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Nothing important, Varric." Merrill leaned her staff against the wall.

Varric slipped inside, and Kazar let himself relax a bit. He tossed Merrill one last heated look, only to receive that pouty glare in response, but they had little choice but to call a temporary truce.

"So…" Varric hummed, sauntering into the apartment, "you two know the Alienage is swarming with Templars, right?"

"Oh yeah," Kazar said caustically. "We were aware."

"Aha. Fans of yours, Sparky?"

"Just the best."

"What's going on, Varric?" Merrill said, her previous tension fading away in the presence of her friend.

"Nothing much, except that Hawke's buying in the Hanged Man. I figured you might want to get out of here for a couple hours, Daisy." He nodded to Kazar. "And why don't you come too?"

Kazar wasn't naïve enough to think this invitation wasn't about the Templars overrunning the area, though he did wonder why he was being included in it.

"I don't know, Varric," Merrill sighed. She slumped at her table and picked up her discarded teacup. "I don't feel very Hawke-y right now."

Varric nodded sagely and settled into the seat opposite her, leaving Kazar to stand around awkwardly. Varric leaned on the table, tucking his chin in his hand as he considered Merrill. "That thing with the Dalish knife is still bothering you, hm?"

She sighed and slumped back. "The _Arulin'Holm_ , and _yes_. I mean, I know she usually doesn't approve of the things I do, but this is a step beyond that, don't you think? As in, she's actively interfering with my life where I don't want her to, and she doesn't even realize that doing that is wrong."

"Ah, you know how she gets, Daisy. She just wants what she thinks is best for everyone."

"And so apparently 'what's best' includes putting me on a leash." Merrill curled up in the chair, small and dejected. "She's okay letting me keep my freedom, except for the parts where it goes against her wishes? That's not freedom at all."

"Maybe you should just talk to her about this."

"I'm not talking to her until she gives me the _Arulin'Holm_."

Varric sighed softly through his nose, then glanced at Kazar. "What's your take on this, Sparky?"

He couldn't bite back his alarm at being included in _this_ tangle of brambles, especially as Merrill shot him a look that told him exactly how welcome his input was.

"Don't look at me. I barely know this Hawke lady."

"Maybe not Hawke, but what about this _Arulin'Holm_? It's your artifact too, isn't it?"

Merrill made a derogatory noise, and Kazar hid a wince.

_You're not even a real Dalish!_

"I don't know. I guess it's pretty ridiculous for a human to hang onto an ancient Dalish artifact because she pathologically couldn't turn down a reward for finishing a quest."

"Yes, exactly!" Merrill cried. "She has no business keeping it!"

"But was it the right decision, do you think?" Varric pressed, his voice calm and soothing.

"No, the right decision would have been for Marethari to never offer it in the first place."

Merrill's eyes narrowed. "Yet again, you prove that you do not respect the traditions of our people."

"I respect them just fine," he snapped. "I just don't believe in clinging to ones that actively _harm_ us. Like, say, ancient, Tainted mirrors."

Merrill slammed her hand against the table and hissed, "Don't even start."

Honestly he was tired of having this argument, too. He bit his retort off before he could say it and rubbed his eyes.

"Hey Sparky."

"What?"

"You were a Warden, right?"

Not sure where he was going with this, Kazar sighed and lowered his hands. "You know for a fact that I was."

"Maybe you could take a look at the mirror." Both elves peered at him in confusion, and he shrugged. "There might be another way to do whatever Daisy wants to do, without blood magic _or_ this artifact."

Merrill cast Kazar a narrow-eyed look, studying his reaction.

Kazar turned that over in his head. Yes, the mirror had Tainted Meila, but he already bore that little affliction, so there was nothing to worry about there. And if they _could_ find a way to restore the artifact?

Well, that depended on what it actually _did_ , didn't it?

He met Merrill's eyes for a moment, and she tilted her head, still suspicious but also hopeful. Slowly, she stood. "It's just back here."

She led them through the doorway into the other part of her shack, and Kazar was a little jealous to see she actually had a hallway and _rooms_ in hers.

Then, he felt the mirror.

He stopped in his tracks as the prickling, scratchy feeling of darkspawn rushed over his mortal side, and he very nearly summoned a fireball on instinct, half expecting a genlock to burrow out of the floor in front of him.

Meanwhile, his other, absent half roared up with something completely different.

_Recognition._

He barely even saw the twisted form of the broken mirror before red took over his vision.

_Yes, let her fix it. Open the way. Let mortals try to step into the Fade once again, and watch them fail._

He snapped his eyes shut and stumbled back, needing to get _away_ from that thing.

"Whoa, better get him a chair, Daisy."

Small, slender hands guided him back to a dining chair, and he gratefully sat and tried to get control of his conflicting parts. His Warden drive to fight and destroy the Tainted item fought his demonic yearning to use it to see his home plane again.

 _Mortal, dammit. I'm mortal._ This _is my home plane._

It was harder to fight it down than it had been for a long time. It wriggled and fought, like wrestling an angry cat into a box. After a minute of breathing exercises and clinging tightly to those metaphysical roots Marethari had so painstakingly taught him to build, he felt in control enough to open his eyes.

When he looked up, Merrill offered him a new cup of tea, this one with the scent of calming herbs. He took it gratefully with shaking hands and gulped it down, barely caring when he scalded his tongue.

"What was that about?" Varric asked. Oh spirits, what had he _seen_?

"Are you okay?" Merrill said, her brow furrowed.

"Fine." Another gulp. "Just… holy shit, you cannot finish that thing."

"Kazar…"

"No, listen. It's a portal." She was chewing her lip. "I don't know what it was originally for, but it's been corrupted. Even if you do cleanse the Taint, you can bet any nearby demons will be at least tempted to use it to connect this plane to the Fade."

Her eyes widened slightly, and he could see by her expression that she understood that he was including himself in that.

"But surely, if we fix the corruption," Merrill said shakily, "the demons shouldn't be able to use it?"

"I don't know?" Kazar sighed. "I'm all for de-Tainting things, but that usually involves burning them to ash. I'm not even sure whether a thing, once Tainted, _can_ be purified."

"There is one way," Merrill said quietly. "The spirit taught me."

"And are you sure you know its intentions?"

She lowered her head, chewing on her lip as she glanced through the doorway toward the mirror.

"Please, Merrill. Let's just smash this thing and go home."

Slowly, she shook her head. "I can't. I… I need to do this, Kazar. Otherwise all of it will have been for nothing."

He wasn't even surprised. "Then it looks like I'm staying too."

She met his eyes, and he was damned if he was looking away.

"Well, then," said Varric, whose presence made both of them jump and break _whatever_ that had been. "I think, with that, it's time to go get some drinks."


	21. When All Else Fails, Go to the Bar

The Hanged Man was loud and crowded, neither of which were things Kazar was particularly comfortable with. He stayed tight to the dwarf's heels, hoping that nothing happened to stir the demon still shifting restlessly under the surface. He was inundated by whispers of what each patron's greatest Pride was, and how he might twist that to his advantage.

Varric hadn't mentioned anything about glowing red eyes or flaring demonic auras, nor was he giving Kazar any wary looks or turning him into the Templars. Maybe Kazar had gotten lucky and Varric hadn't noticed anything?

The dwarf wove his way through the crowds toward a staircase leading up into the back, but he paused and changed course as Isabela waved him over to a big round table in the corner. She had three empty tankards in front of her and an unhappy man on either side of her. On her right was Fenris, who had his hand wrapped around a bottle, the metal talons of his gauntlets clinking against it idly as he glared daggers at anyone who dared to meet his eyes.

On Isabela's left, Anders sat stiffly with a single, still-full tankard in front of him. He looked about as comfortable in this environment as Kazar was.

"What are you doing down here, Rivaini? I know you can get into my rooms just fine without me."

"She's up to something." Isabela nodded toward a smaller, two-person table up near the front of the tavern. There, Hawke was trying to talk to an awkward-looking man in the armor of the Kirkwall guard. "I, for one, fully intend to watch."

"My my," Varric chuckled, slipping easily into the chair beside Fenris. "If I didn't know better, I'd say our dear Hawke was..."

"On a date? Exactly!" Isabela sat back, shamelessly surveying their fearless leader from across the tavern. Merrill sat quietly next to Varric.

The only free table was a tiny one directly adjacent to the group, behind Merrill. Kazar reluctantly slipped into it, leaning his staff against the back of his chair. He didn't intend to eavesdrop, but they were _right there._

"This is ridiculous," Fenris growled. "And none of our business." His eyes, however, were locked squarely on the woman in question. "We should go elsewhere."

"She's out in public," Isabela said. "As far as I'm concerned, that makes ogling her fair game."

"I still refuse to think this is a date," Anders mumbled. "She's never shown any interest in that kind of man before. What need does _Hawke_ have of a combat-savvy romantic interest?"

" _Plenty_ ," Fenris hissed, his glare spinning to Anders. "Far more, certainly, than she has any need of a _mage_."

Anders returned the elf's glare. "Say that loud enough to be heard at the Gallows, why don't you?"

"They already know. It's only Hawke's protection that saves you, because your ability to lay low is abominable."

Merrill stifled a snicker, making both men scowl at her.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "But… abominable. That was pretty good, don't you think?"

Fenris made a face and Anders dropped his head to the table, and the group resumed observing their leader in companionable silence.

Kazar wasn't really sure how to take the ragtag group, now that they were all gathered together like this (minus the large red-head, but close enough).

It made him a little nostalgic, to be honest, seeing the eclectic collection of races and professions… a Dalish mage sitting next to a dwarven crossbowman, sitting next to an elven fighter, sitting next to _whatever_ Isabela was. Given her outfit, he was tempted to go with reformed streetwalker.

His thoughts paused as his eyes landed on Anders.

Was what Merrill had said earlier true? Was Anders a Warden?

He could kind of see it. The Anders who was notorious around the Fereldan Circle for his numerous escape attempts (some of them even successful!) had been a jokester, a flirt, and utterly, completely insufferable.

Kazar had crossed paths with him occasionally (because in the closed environment of a Circle Tower, everyone crossed everyone's path occasionally). Kazar vividly recalled one time when he and Jowan were skipping their lessons by hiding out in the kitchen storage room. Kazar, who had been nine at the time, was taking the opportunity to practice his ice spells by freezing the various rats that always got into the grain (an act of initiative that Irving would later simultaneously praise and scold him for).

The door opened, and in stumbled Anders and Regina, the two mages giggling and with their hands invading one another's personal space. Teenaged Jowan flushed the color of a cherry at the sight, but Kazar was mostly annoyed about having their solitude interrupted.

The mages didn't see the apprentices at first, so Kazar gave a growl and tossed a puff of ice magic at the pair of them. They yelped and sprang apart, and only then noticed that they'd interrupted something.

Regina at least looked embarrassed, her hand going to her mouth, but Anders just grinned.

"No no, little guy, you've got it all wrong. _Lightning_ is the one that makes things interesting."

Jowan went from cherry to plum, but Kazar just stamped his foot. "Go away! We were here first!"

Anders just grinned wider. "Well, if you're up for it, I'm not averse to sharing the space. You might learn a thing or two, kiddo." He wiggled his eyebrows.

Regina slapped his shoulder. "Anders, that's awful! He's just a baby!"

Kazar _hated_ being called that. He yelled and zapped out a lightning bolt in their general direction. He hadn't gotten the hang of aiming those yet, unpredictable as they were, so it just cracked harmlessly into the wall to the mages' right.

He neglected to consider that lightning was very loud, and that there was usually a Templar patrolling nearby. Cue the thunder of footsteps and all four of them getting dragged before the First Enchanter to be reprimanded like the naughty schoolchildren they were.

Anders spent the ensuing lecture making faces at Kazar behind Irving's back, and Kazar, being nine, had no choice but to make faces back.

Still, that was a long time ago and they'd never really known one another all that well. Anders, a healer and full mage for most of Kazar's time at the Tower, had traveled in completely different circles than the elementally-inclined apprentice. If Kazar and Jowan counted as a circle, anyway. But Kazar distinctly remembered the mage's loud, "witty" personality.

This Anders was like an echo of the old one. He was worn down, something about him tired beyond just the deep circles under his eyes. There was no flippancy to his manner, and his smile was fleeting and dulled.

This was what being a Warden did to people. So, yeah. When Merrill said Anders had become a Warden at some point, Kazar could believe it.

Kazar noticed a moment too late that Fenris was looking around, and the taller elf caught him watching them.

"What is _he_ doing here?"

Cue the entire table turning to look at him. Kazar pretended to be to busy accepting the mug of… _something_ … a barmaid had just plunked in front of him.

"He came for the free drinks," Varric said easily. "What else?"

"That was not the question and you know it. What is he doing _in Kirkwall_?"

"We went to the Dalish," Isabela said, "and he followed us home like a lost puppy. Didn't you, sweet thing?"

Kazar mumbled wordlessly into his mug, opting to choke down the sharp, bitter whatever-was-in-there instead of talking to them.

"So there is yet _another_ apostate loose in the city."

"Hey, don't worry," Varric said. "You know Hawke has it under control."

The elf sighed and went quiet. He then went back to glaring bloody murder at the armored figure awkwardly sharing a table with Hawke. Kazar valiantly did not make a face at the taste burning its way toward his belly as he set his mug down. Ugh, how could people like Garott and Oghren stand this sort of stuff? Maybe dwarves had a stunted sense of taste or something.

"So," Merrill said. "How have things… um… been? The past few weeks?"

"Eventful," Anders said wryly.

"Exciting," said Isabela.

"Interesting," said Varric.

Fenris grunted noncommittally.

"So when can we expect you to start going out with us again, Kitten?" Isabela said.

"I don't know." Merrill slumped forward onto the table. "Ever since the whole thing with the Varterral, I haven't really felt much like adventuring with Hawke."

Varric said, "Don't think of it as 'adventuring with Hawke.' Think of it as 'keeping Hawke out of trouble.'"

"And if in the process," Anders said, "we keep _you_ out of trouble, more's th-OW. What was that for?" He turned a glare at Isabela, who whistled with overdone innocence.

"Well," Merrill said glumly, "you don't need to worry about my little project anymore. Hawke's gone and stopped it in its tracks."

"What?" Anders leaned over to peer at her. "Are you serious? You're not…" A quick glance around the crowded tavern. "…doing the thing the rest of us don't approve of anymore?"

"Well, I very well can't without the tool Hawke's holding hostage, can I? Despite the fact that it's an ancient artifact of my people."

"Good for her," Fenris mumbled, still staring across the tavern at Hawke's table.

"What?!" Merrill's voice was rising now. "Fenris, you're an elf, and she took an ancient elven artifact! Doesn't that bother you even a little?"

Fenris turned a cool look to her. "If the alternative was to let you have it and use it for _blood magic_ , then no, I approve of Hawke's decision wholeheartedly."

Merrill tapped the table irritably a couple times, then spun to look at Kazar. "Kazar, back me up! You even admitted that Hawke keeping a Dalish artifact is wrong!"

"Hey, keep me out of this."

"Actually, I'm curious, Kazar," Anders spoke up, watching him carefully. "What _is_ your take on Merrill's… practices?"

Kazar gripped his mug and used all his Dalish-fostered habits not to show the brief spike of terror at the question. Did he _know_? "Why would you ask me a question like that? It's not like I have a unique perspective or anything; I was raised in the same environment you were."

"Yes, but you never seemed to speak out on either side of the issue." Anders leaned farther over the table to see him better. His expression was still light, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn't been there before the Blight. "In fact, rumor had it that of all the apprentices in our Circle who the Templars thought might turn blood mage, you were always at the top of the watch list."

That had Merrill and Fenris both turning to stare at him, and Kazar stubbornly met them with a glare. "Well, fuck them and fuck you. I don't like her using it anymore than you do." He caught Merrill's eyes and held them. "Dealing with demons is a sure road to self destruction. Only a moron knows that and still lets it taint their soul and conscience." Merrill's eyes widened, hurt, and she looked away.

That seemed to satisfy both Anders and Fenris, though, because they sat back and returned to nursing their drinks (or not, in Anders' case). Kazar swore he saw Varric watching him from the corner of his eye, but when he glanced at the dwarf, Varric was simply considering his hands.

Kazar buried himself back in his mug as the companions returned to blatantly spying on their leader. Kazar found that each sip was going down a little easier than the last. Maybe he was getting used to the taste, or something?

He found his eyes wandering over to Hawke, because that just seemed to be the place attention naturally went. Hawke had a way of filling up a room, and Kazar wasn't the only one sucked into the spell, because other patrons and even the bar staff seemed more prone to glancing at her than not.

Whatever she was doing, it looked like it was excruciatingly awkward. She was now resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, looking thoroughly bored. No… not bored… expectant. Like she was waiting for something, and that something was failing to deliver.

The man she was with kept his long face schooled into polite neutrality, with an occasional lift of an eyebrow or tilt of the head revealing that he was just as confused about the situation as the companions were.

No sooner had Kazar noticed that his mug was empty than a second one appeared as if by magic at his elbow.

He found his eyes traveling back to the companions as they broke out a deck of cards and started playing a betting game. Soon enough, the sounds of laughter and good-natured ribbing rose from the table, where not so long before had been real arguments about blood magic and heritage. It surprised Kazar to see Merrill gleefully place a few cards down, evoking a sputter from Anders and genuine chuckling from the other three.

Kazar found his eyes stuck on Merrill as she did a ridiculous little victory dance in her seat. He hadn't seen her like that in _years_. He'd practically forgotten how silly she could be.

Some of the other Wardens had tried to teach him a couple card games during the Blight, but the fact that the rogues all seemed to make a game out of out-cheating each other and the fact that Kazar was a sore loser had put an end to those attempts pretty quickly. He wished he'd stuck through a lesson now, because maybe then he could join them. Or at least understand the game he was so blatantly eavesdropping on.

Shit, he should probably get back in contact with the other Wardens at some point. He'd sent out a quick note via bird a couple years back, but that was just to warn a certain noble that his ex-girlfriend's dead evil not-mother wasn't so dead after all.

Maybe it would be nice to let Garott know he was alive. Or Felicity. Or Fin. Shit, so much for the Warden bond of brotherhood. He was the worst brother ever.

And where'd his second mug go? It was full a minute ago.

He was halfway through his third when Isabela interrupted the table's banter with a hissed, "Hey, hold up! Look at that!"

The red-headed warrior woman, Aveline, had just ducked into the tavern, and was holding a silent exchange with Hawke over her tablemate's oblivious shoulder. As Kazar watched, Aveline shook her head and left, and Hawke threw her hands in the air in a gesture of exasperation.

"Well, now," Varric said. "That was an interesting exchange."

"HA! I knew it!" Anders said, grinning. "I knew she wasn't on a date!"

"Of course she wasn't," Fenris said, his lips also quirked upward. "Hawke has far better taste than that."

"Have someone else in mind, do you?"

"I don't see why it would matter to you." The pair exchanged a hard, intense look.

Isabela, caught between the two, put her hands to both faces and pushed them away. "Easy, boys. There's no need to fight. You're both pretty."

Kazar glanced back at Hawke's table, only to see that the man had apparently excused himself and left, and now Hawke was heading toward her companions. Her lips were drawn in some weird combination between anger and amusement.

"Hawke," Varric greeted smoothly as the woman in question reached the table and loomed over it with her hands on her hips. "How do you do?"

Fenris and Anders both returned to nonchalantly considering their cards, as if they hadn't just been squabbling like a cat and dog.

"Oh, you know," Hawke said, her light tone scored with undercurrents of frustration. "Trying to fix everyone's issues, only to have them blow up in my face yet again. Why can't any of you be normal, I ask you?"

"Because then you'd get bored of us, love," Isabela said easily, putting a card down on the table. "So what was that all about?"

Hawke pulled up a chair, taking the vacant spot next to Anders (who practically glowed, and Fenris _glared_ ). "Alas, I'm afraid I have been sworn to secrecy. I will not betray my honorable vow of silence on the matter."

"However…" Varric prompted expectantly.

"However," Hawke snatched the still-full mug from in front of Anders and took a sip, "and of no relation to what we were just talking about, Aveline has the most _abhorrent_ flirting techniques I have ever seen. How she ever snagged her first husband, I will never know."

"Maybe the first husband did the flirting?" Merrill asked.

"Oh yeah. Wesley was just the most charming of Templars. Especially the part where he was a dick to my baby sister." Another swig.

"Best not to pick at old scars, love," Isabela said gently.

Hawke shrugged with forced nonchalance. "I'm fine. You all know it's Carver who goes ballistic at the mention of Bethany. More so now… he's gotten so suppressed that it might just make his head explode, and I'd so hate to be forced to go back home and explain that to Mother."

Anders tilted his head thoughtfully, unperturbed by the blatant mug-snatching. "It might be worth it, just to watch Carver's head pop open." He made a motion of an explosion with his hands and matching sound effect. Merrill giggled.

Hawke rolled her eyes. "You'd say that about any Templar."

"Yes. Yes I would."

"So is that it, then?" Varric asked. "Show's over? Or do we have an encore?"

"That's it for tonight," Hawke said, "but this is most certainly not over if I have anything to say about it. Anyone willing to march up to Hightown tomorrow morning and help drill the Captain of the Guard about her romantic ineptitude is welcome to come."

Isabela immediately raised her hand. "I'm in!"

Fenris nodded. "You know I've got your back, Hawke. No matter the… frivolity of the circumstances."

"I don't know about frivolous," Hawke said. She put a hand over her heart and, with exaggerated passion, said, "For what are matters of the heart… but the greatest adventure of all!"

As one, the entire table burst out laughing. Kazar, who was beginning to feel a little woozy, laid his head down in his arms and just listened to the ruckus next to him.

"What about you, Merrill? You up for a little meddling in Aveline's love life?"

"I don't think so, Hawke."

"Merrill…"

"No, Hawke."

There was a sound like a dog whimpering, and a sigh.

"Look, maybe next time. I'm just… not in the mood right now."

"But next time? You promise?"

"…yeah."

"Wonderful!" And just like that, Hawke's voice was boisterous again.

Something thunked, like someone's head hitting the table, and Merrill's slightly muffled voice said, "I swear, it is the least fair thing in the world that it's impossible to say no to you."

"I know," Hawke said cheerfully, "and it's an ability I exploit shamelessly." There was the scraping of chairs across the floor. "Well, we've got an early morning harassing the guard captain. All of you, to bed with you!"

"Mm," Isabela said, "I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that, love."

"Down, girl. Go on, shoo. Don't make me pull out the bed-time stories."

"Will you promise to tuck me in?" Isabela purred, then yelped and burst out into laughter. Her footsteps retreated up the stairs that led into the back rooms.

"Come, Hawke. I will escort you back to Hightown."

"You're such a gentleman, Fenris! I am swooning. Varric, look at me swoon!"

"So I see."

Anders' voice mumbled something unintelligible. There was more movement, and soon the sounds of Fenris and Hawke faded away into the tavern's general din.

"All right, Daisy, let me walk you back to the Alienage."

"Thanks, Varric, but I don't really need an escort."

"Maybe not, but I think _he_ might." Kazar heard scuffing next to him. He turned his head in the pillow of his arms to blink at the murky sight of Varric at his elbow.

"I think you hit your limit there, Sparky."

"'M fine," Kazar mumbled, and then yawned.

"Only three mugs, huh?" Anders said, and the loudness of his voice indicated that he'd wandered closer, too. "I always somehow figured you for a lightweight."

"Bite me, Anders."

"You know, if you keep giving me the invitation, I may have to take you up on it."

And that line was just enough like the old Anders to make Kazar raise his head off the table to glare at the other mage, who was leaned in close on his other side, staring at his… arms? "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, though his flippancy seemed ironically forced. "You grew up well."

"And you've known me since I was four. Don't be creepy."

This earned a laugh from the dwarf and a stifled giggle from Merrill, and it took Kazar a moment to remember that they were still there.

"Do you have him, Blondie?"

"Yeah, I can take him down." Anders dropped the fakey flirty thing as he glanced at Varric. "I have some things we need to talk about."

Kazar's throat constricted at that announcement, but he wasn't exactly in a position to protest with how the room was gently spinning.

"All right. Take care, both of you." Varric nodded and, despite Merrill's protests, started out to escort her back home. Kazar watched them go, thinking that he'd have much preferred the dwarf's company to that of fricking _Anders_.

Kazar wasn't sure what the other mage wanted to talk about, but he had a few suspicions, and none of them particularly good. Had he heard about Kazar's little incident during the Battle of Denerim? Was he about to get blackmailed?

Kazar refused to let his nerves show, though. He stood up and shoved past Anders to head outside.

Cool night air rushed over him as soon as he was out the door, chilling his skin and helping clear the cobwebs out of his head. Apparently, while he'd been eavesdropping on the next table over, sunset had come and gone. Even though he'd only been here a couple weeks, Kazar knew that night in Kirkwall was not the most hospitable of times. This was when thieves prowled in the alleys, waiting for the night patrols to pass before they ambushed their unsuspecting prey.

Not that Kazar necessarily had anything against thieves on principle. Some of his best friends from the Wardens had been thieves. He just didn't want to meet any of those who regularly killed people just for their coinpurses.

Thus, he found himself waiting for Anders to slip out into the night behind him. Only then did he start the short walk back to the Alienage, because having another person with him, no matter who, made the shadows in the alley seem slightly less intimidating.

Then, Anders said, "So when was the last time you used blood magic?" and Kazar decided he'd rather be mugged.


	22. When That Fails, Just Go with It

"I don't know what you're talking about." Kazar forced himself to keep walking and not look at the other mage. Of any question, "When was the last time you used blood magic?" was up there with "Why do you glow?" and "Whatever happened to that Jowan fellow?" as questions that Kazar never wanted to deal with.

Anders sighed softly, his long-legged strides easily keeping pace with Kazar's near trot.

"Look, this isn't necessarily an accusation. I just want to know what side of this issue you're really on."

Kazar abruptly stopped walking and whirled on Anders. "What do you mean _'really'_? I already told you that I think it's stupid and anyone who practices it is also stupid. Anything else is none of your fucking business." He pointedly turned and continued walking.

"Because you have no stake in this issue, is that it?"

"Yes, exactly! Why would you even–" Kazar yelped as his left wrist was grabbed from behind, spinning him around. He released a reflexive pulse of electricity, but it was absorbed by a spell shield.

Anders' grip was unnaturally strong as he forced Kazar's left arm up in the air so that his own wrist was level with his eyes.

"I'm a _healer,_ Kazar."

Kazar blinked a couple times before his meaning sank in. His left hand and arm were decorated with faint scars where he'd habitually slashed his own skin open during the Blight. Stabbing there had been the quickest, least damaging means of getting to his blood, and it wasn't like his companions at the time hadn't known about his magic, so he'd had no reason to be subtle about it. In fact, he'd been _glad_ to show off his blood magic so blatantly, because every single time he'd used it, they'd needed it.

Sometimes, he still wondered if more than just Marnan Aeducan would have died in the Deep Roads without it. Would _any_ of them have made it out alive?

A spark of residual Pride flickered in him, but it was drowned out by shame. Anders' grip was firm, and Kazar found that he couldn't meet the other's eyes.

"To your credit, these look old. So be honest and tell me how long it's been."

Kazar yanked his hand away, and Anders let him. He took another step back, looking around at anything but Anders. Oh, look. You could see the harbor between two buildings. In the distance across the water, flickering lights illuminated the Gallows.

"Not since the Blight, okay?"

There was no audible response right away, so he snuck a glance over at Anders. The other mage's face was grim, but he seemed to be thinking through his response to that. Slowly, with a note of threat that Kazar wasn't sure what to make of, Anders asked, "Why did you do it?"

"Because I was a dumb kid who never learned not to play with fire?" Kazar snapped. "What does it matter? The point is that I've learned my lesson and I'm never going to do it again... do you want a sealed and signed letter from the king of Ferelden that this is true? Because I might be able to actually arrange that."

Anders seemed to snap out of whatever that had been, the hardness lifting from his face as he shrugged. "No, that's not necessary. I just… I guess that makes sense."

"What brought this on? Since when are you captain of the blood magic patrol?"

"Blood mages give the rest of us a bad name," he said sharply. "It's hard enough to oppose the Templars here without every other mage proving their accusations of blood magic correct. Sometimes, I feel like I'm the only mage in Kirkwall who hasn't slashed himself open at some point!"

This, here, was that intensity that Kazar had noticed before. The kind that he'd never displayed at the Circle. Since when did _Anders_ _care_?

Then again, that was a hypocritical train of thought. The same question could be asked about Kazar.

"Look, what I said in there was true," the elf said. "Blood magic is the tool of idiots and weaklings."

"What does that say about you?"

"I'm including myself in that!"

That made Anders pause.

"You don't have to lecture me about this. I've already berated myself plenty, all right?"

Anders studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Still. I have to know..."

"Oh for the Fade's sake–"

"Have you hurt people? With or because of your blood magic?"

Kazar looked away, back toward the gallows, as he thought about that.

"It was darkspawn, mostly. I really started using it down in the Deep Roads. Used it on Flemeth, once." He snorted and shook his head. "It still wasn't enough to beat that old bag."

"I wouldn't think it would be." Andes continued to watch him. "But not… people? You didn't commit any injustices against people?"

"'Commit injustices'? Seriously." He made a face at the human. "No. I killed a bunch of darkspawn and golems, took a crack at a dragon-lady, and then learned my lesson in a way that I really don't want to get into in the middle of Lowtown. Happy?"

"It's a start." Still, the tension in his voice had eased. Anders motioned for them to start moving again, so Kazar did. "Commander Cousland used to tell us about what happened during the Blight, you know. But every time he mentioned you, it felt like he was leaving something out. In the narrative, your team would be fighting a pair of ogres, and then suddenly you'd have killed one in an implausible manner." Anders glanced at him. "I guess this was the thing he was leaving out, and, in hindsight, I can't say I really blame him."

"Because he was ashamed of it," Kazar grumbled. "Percy never really approved of it… but damned if he didn't let it happen. He just saw it as a necessary evil."

"Yeah, that sounds like him." Again, Kazar glanced at his companion, who wore a wistful expression now.

"How... No, never mind."

Anders cast him a knowing look, almost a _smile_ , which the elf found particularly grating. "He was fine last time I heard." He paused, then continued in a lighter tone. "Granted, that was over three years ago, so who knows now? The entire Fereldan garrison could have been eaten by schleets, for all I know."

"…what the fuck are schleets?"

That made a bit of his old mischief twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, I can't do the horror justice. You should send a letter to Oghren… he'll tell you all about the horrors of the pants that sneak up on you and eat your eyeballs."

Kazar was so dumbfounded by that that he stopped walking, certain he'd heard wrong. "Okay, I may not have paid attention during the Tower bestiary classes, but I _know_ that's not a real thing."

Sure enough, Anders burst out laughing. "I know, but the dwarves didn't know that! I tell you, watching the Commander pop a blood vessel because Oghren kept running around in his skivvies was well worth the cleaning duty he assigned all of us as punishment." Anders wiped his eyes. "Even Nate participated in that one."

"Wait, Oghren joined the Wardens? When did that happen?"

"About six months after the Blight. We shared a Joining, actually. Warden legend has it that whereas Ser Mhairi and myself dropped straight to the floor, Oghren just belched and asked for seconds."

"Is that true?"

"Well, I was unconscious at the time… but the belching part, at least, I'm certain must be."

Kazar was dumbstruck. "You know, I actually can imagine him pulling off being a Warden. He's crazy enough for it."

"There was no one I preferred to have between myself and the baddies in a fight. And that's on top of how fun he was to mess with."

"…yeah." Kazar actually felt a bit nostalgic about that. "You know, his first day on the surface, Garott and I told him that he had to make sure he tied himself to a tree at night, or else he'd fall up into the sky while he was sleeping. Sure enough, every night, he'd wrap this strip of leather around his waist before bed, then shake his fist at the sky and _dare_ it to try and take him."

Anders chuckled, and Kazar's couldn't resist a smile at the memory as he continued.

"We were attacked by bandits in the middle of the night a few weeks later, and the old man was still tied to his tree, circling around it like a mabari on a leash. As soon as the last bandit was dead, Percy physically dragged Garott and me in front of him. He took turns tweaking our ears until we confessed the truth. Garott thought it was the most hilarious thing _ever_."

"I've met him a couple times," Anders said. "Brosca's an interesting sort."

"That's one way of putting it."

"He once helped us take out this broodmother who had been given intelligence and gone mad from it. Do you know what his solution was? Putting her on a giant sodding _catapult_."

"Did it work?"

"Inexplicably, yes."

"The first time I really interacted with Garott was at Ostagar. I was pissed off about something and he just walked right up to me and suggested mildly poisoning the Templar camp."

Anders laughed, sounding delighted. "Did you actually agree?"

"Well, yeah. I wasn't going to pass up a chance to make a bunch of Templars feel like crap." The two apostates exchanged a grin at that. "We pulled it off, too, until the local Chantry representatives came in and identified a poison pretty exclusive to underground. As one of two dwarves in camp, Garott figured a tactical retreat was in order."

"I know the feeling."

"The Tower's chronic runaway? _No._ "

"As you so often say, 'bite me'." They were near the top of the stairs down into the Alienage. There was a balcony nearby that looked over the docks, which Anders now settled against, and Kazar joined him. The human wore a wistful smile. "I used to pull things like that in the Wardens sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"My favorite target was this stick-in-the-mud named Nathaniel Howe. He was always stiff and formal, especially around the Commander… Granted, his father had had the Commander's entire household killed, and then the Commander killed his father, and then Nate came back to kill the _Commander_. As you can imagine, it was a little bit awkward all around."

"You think?"

"The point is, he had this huge stick up his arse. Obviously, as the resident healer, it was my duty to operate." His grin turned mischievous. "I happened to have a kitten at my disposal, courtesy of the Commander. And I figured, what softens the hardest of hearts more than an adorable wittle kitty."

"You did not just say 'wittle'."

"I did and I am not ashamed," he declared. "So, using a spare bow from the armory and the bountiful supply of fish in Amaranthine, I trained Sir-Pounce-A-Lot to associate bows with deliciousness, so that he'd run up and start licking and purring and being generally adorable at anyone carrying one." He winked. "Nate was an archer."

"What happened?"

"Alas, Nate could not appreciate the sheer irresistibleness of an affectionate kitty. He was a _dog person_." He mock shuddered, and Kazar chortled. "He sued the Commander to foster Pounce with his sister, and the Commander, also being one of _them_ , eventually agreed. Not before he'd grown into a fierce battle-kitten, though."

"You took a _cat_ into battle?"

"Of course! He got a good swipe in at a genlock, once." He mimicked a clawing motion. "Right across the nose."

Kazar leaned forward against the balustrade. "I always thought genlocks were the most fun to take down. They _squawk_ when you zap them."

"You haven't seen the Children. They pop. Like squeezing a pimple."

"Ew," Kazar said, though he was surprised to find himself laughing.

"Sigrun, one of the Wardens in Amaranthine, used to make a game out of jumping on top of them like stepping stones. We'd stumble into a nest in the Deep Roads, and she'd just start hopping from one to the next."

"Sounds like Finian Tabris. He had a habit of jumping on top of things that wanted to kill him. I hear that's what he did the first time he ever saw an ogre... just jumped right onto its face."

"I can't imagine. My policy with darkspawn larger than me has always been 'stand back and let someone wearing metal handle it'."

"Yep. Makes it hard to sling spells, though. The first time I saw an Alpha, I shot a fireball at it. I hadn't really gotten the hang of shooting into melee, though, and pretty much hit Alistair in the face full-blast."

Anders guffawed. "The _king_?!"

"Well, he wasn't the king then. Back then, he was just an ex-Templar Warden, and honestly, kind of obnoxious."

"It's strange, the sorts of people you encounter in the Wardens." He shook his head wistfully. "Maker, sometimes I miss it."

"Why'd you leave?"

His mirth faded. "I had something else more important that I had to do." Anders glanced at him. "What about you? The Blight Wardens were always really closed off about where you elves went."

Kazar's first instinct was to snap a 'none of your business' at the other mage, but something stopped him. A certain camaraderie was barely beginning to bloom between them, and he found he didn't want to kill it so quickly.

"Greagoir found out," Kazar confessed, pointedly holding up his left arm. Not the whole truth, but close enough.

Anders nodded. "And he didn't take it well."

"I nearly got shipped off to Aeonar. Meila helped me escape and… here I am."

"Living among the Dalish."

"Well, I _was_ , until some dimwit actually started getting _good_ at blood magic."

Anders visibly shuddered. "There is never anything good about blood magic."

"Tell me about it." Kazar started walking again, and Anders fell into step beside him as they headed down the stairs into the Alienage.

"I feel I should warn you, since you're stumbling into this blindly."

" _Hey_."

"There is something wrong with this city." His voice had become low and forboding. "Legitimately rotten in its core, and it's corrupting the entire area from the inside out."

That… was a little ominous. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not sure yet." Anders shook his head. "I just… You should know. Whatever it is, it seems to twist good people into bad. As someone who's already been tempted by blood magic once..." He trailed off with a sidelong glance.

"You think I'm going to backslide, don't you?" No response. "Well, take your suspicion and shove it up your increasingly tightening ass. I've been resisting temptation for three years. A short stay here won't change that."

Softly, Anders said, "I believe that you believe that."

"Fuck you," Kazar bit out. They had reached the _vhenedahl_ at this point, so Kazar felt secure in storming across the Alienage, away from him. The human didn't follow, thank the spirits.

The Templars were gone from his hole in the wall, though they'd certainly left a mess behind. Kazar stepped over the remains of his door and just headed for his cot. He was officially done with this day.


	23. Don't Travel Alone

The next morning saw Kazar attempting to put his apartment back into order. There hadn't been much furniture to overturn, but the remains of pottery and his mattress were partially strewn all over the ground. More, his door was still resting flat on the floor, and there was no way Kazar could afford to get it fixed.

He sighed and used little blasts of concussive force to sweep the pottery shards into a neat pile for disposal. He was in the midst of burning away the straw that had fallen out of his slashed cot when a head poked curiously around his doorway.

"Well, this is an interesting choice," Hawke said, looking down at the broken door curiously. "Is that a Dalish thing?"

Kazar snorted and turned back to his work, and the flame he summoned flared a little with his annoyance. "No, it's a 'Templars raided my house last night' thing."

"Ah." She shrugged and stepped carefully over the door, and he turned to her warily, wondering why Kirkwall's resident crazy person was in his house. "You know the Wounded Coast, right?"

"Uh, sure?" He distractedly summoned a burst of vines to help shore up a broken leg on his stool, making sure to keep her in his sight.

"Great! Come on." She spun on her heel and started back out.

"Hey, what? Hold on!"

The look on her face as she paused and turned back was genuinely surprised. "What's wrong?"

He actually found himself _sputtering_ for a moment. "You… you can't just do that! Tell people to 'come' and 'heel' and expect them to follow you!"

She blinked. "You object?"

"Yes I object! Where are we going? Why?"

"The Wounded Coast. I thought that was implied."

"Well, why in the Fade would I want to follow you out there?

She grinned brightly. "Didn't you once say you'd find a way to repay me?"

He closed his mouth with a snap. Thought about it. Opened his mouth. "Okay," he said reluctantly, because he did hate the idea of being in anyone's debt. "Let's start from the beginning. Hi, Hawke. Welcome to my humble abode. Why are you here?"

Her grin widened with amusement, but she crossed her arms and leaned on his doorjamb as if she'd just come in. "Well hello, short and prickly one. I need to borrow you today. We're heading up the coast near Sundermount. Free?"

"Why sure. It's not like I have a recently raided house to clean up or anything."

"Great." Her grin brightened, and, either oblivious to or ignoring his sarcasm, she started off again.

Kazar cast a glance around his broken apartment and sighed. Then, he grabbed his staff and travel kit and ran after Hawke, skidding out the door and along the walkway. Hawke's long strides had already taken her to the other side of the square.

It wasn't until he'd nearly reached her at the entrance to the Alienage that he looked up and saw who was waiting for them at the base of the stairs.

Isabela gave him a curious once-over. Fenris, meanwhile, scowled and turned to Hawke as Kazar reached them and caught his breath.

"Really, Hawke? Another mage?"

Hawke shrugged and continued up the stairs, and the other two followed automatically. Kazar took a distant and somewhat baffled rear. "We could use some ranged damage, but Anders is busy with his clinic and I don't want to push Merrill."

"Could you not have brought Varric?"

"I've already dragged Varric out of the city once this month. You know how he hates to be in places where he has a chance of getting mud on his boots."

Fenris grumbled something. Isabela hummed and sent a glance back at Kazar. "I'm not complaining. I'm sure this little quest of ours will be good for our repressed friend here."

"What little quest?" Kazar asked, then belatedly snapped, "And I'm not repressed."

"Mm hm. Sure you're not, sweet thing."

"It's just a little favor for a friend," said Hawke.

"And she'd better be grateful when we're done," Isabela finished.

Still confused and a little annoyed, Kazar continued to follow the party as they wound their way out of the city. Hawke used a path he hadn't been aware of, ducking through a small guard-only gate to get outside the walls with no fuss at all.

They headed away from Kirkwall and onto one of the rocky coastal roads surrounding the city. There, Hawke stopped them to point up at a cluster of mountains flanking the city—among them Sundermount. "The patrol route starts there," she pointed about halfway up one peak, "then weaves around there," she waved it toward another, "and ends near the valley between them. It'll be easy to spot from the beacons... I hope."

"Hawke," Fenris said, "your confidence is, as ever, highly encouraging."

Hawke grinned. "I know."

It took Kazar a moment to realize that the sour elf had just told a joke.

Kazar broke in, "So what are we doing, exactly?"

"Clearing the road," Hawke responded, turning to address him. "Our mission is of direst importance to Operation: Get Aveline Laid. If this doesn't go well, I'll be forced to endure some even _more_ excruciating form of courting, and I can't even think of what could possibly be more excruciating than last night."

"You're braving wild animals, bandits, and rogue Qunari… to hook up a friend?"

She blinked. "That's what I just said, yes."

Isabela stifled a laugh, and Fenris looked away to fail to hide his own smirk.

Hawke gave them all a raised eyebrow, then turned and started along the road.

"Don't worry, sweet thing," Isabela said as the three fell into step behind her. "You'll get used to her."

"No, he will not," Fenris protested sharply. "This will not become a regular thing. Right, Hawke?"

Hawke's shoulders shrugged as she continued walking. "I said I was borrowing him for the day and then we were even."

Fenris nodded, apparently mollified by that.

"So…" Isabela walked next to Kazar, a look in her eye that he didn't like. "What did you and Anders talk about last night?" Yep. He didn't like it.

Fenris' head turned sharply, and Kazar sought to ignore his piercing stare to give Isabela an annoyed look of his own. "I thought you'd gone to bed by then."

"Nothing bad ever came from a bit of eavesdropping from the top of the stairs, sweet thing." She cast him a wink. "Now, what did our little rebel friend want to say to you?"

Rebel? Seriously? "Warden things, mostly," he hedged.

She raised a doubtful eyebrow, but Hawke turned and walked backwards, interrupting with, "Really? What about? He never talks Warden things with us."

"You're not Wardens." Kazar found all three of them staring at him with different levels of curiosity (none, in Fenris' case). "It's kind of a unique bond."

"Not unique enough for either of you to stay there, apparently," Fenris grumbled.

"Okay, seriously? What the fuck did I ever do to you?"

"It's not what you did. It's what you are."

"Oh, well that's an entirely productive way to look at the world: 'it doesn't matter what you do, because it will never make up for the fact that you were born in the first place.' Well, I apologize that I was thrown onto Thedas with a big gaping hole between the Fade and my soul, and I'm sorry that fact has offended you! My fault for existing!"

"Hey, now," Hawke cut in, waving her arms. "No one's questioning the importance of deeds, here. I'm a big fan of deeds. It's pretty much all I do. It's just that we have something of a poor track record with apostates and the whole… them not being evil thing."

"What about Merrill? And Anders?"

"Two out of literally hundreds of mages we've fought," Hawke said, turning to walk forward again. "And even then, one of them is a blood mage." Fenris opened his mouth to say something, but Hawke's words stampeded right over him. "I swear that out of all the jobs I take that turn out really, really terribly for everyone involved, over half have to do with blood magic, or demons, or apostates killing Templars, or someone trying to possess Templars, or demonic rock monsters... someone please stop me, because I could do this all day."

"And that means all mages are automatically suspect, is that it?"

"Statistically speaking? Pretty much."

Kazar's knuckles were turning white around his staff. "So why tolerate any of us, if we're so dangerous? Why not just lop my head off now?"

"Mainly because I prefer to perform my decapitations on a case-by-case basis."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't think you're dangerous?"

His jaw shut with a shocked snap.

She shrugged. "Honestly, not all mages are bad. My sister faced down an ogre during the Blight. It was charging at us, and she leapt between us and the monster, raised her staff, and _zap_. Bravest thing she'd ever done."

Kazar swallowed. "Your sister was a mage?"

"Yep. Father too. You have a problem with that?"

"No. But I was kind of wondering if you did."

The woman sent an intimidating look over her shoulder at him, and, in a low voice that spoke of rockslides and ruined lives, said, "I loved both of them dearly." Kazar shivered, reminded of just what sort of bear he was baiting, and decided to shut up about the topic.

Silence fell over the party. Kazar busied himself checking for signs of danger in the area. They kept to the well-traveled road, so he couldn't exactly go by his mediocre tracking skills. After a while, he began to wonder why Hawke had brought him.

Kazar was almost glad to hear the thundering tread of Qunari charging through the foliage. Eight of the brutes burst from over the nearest ridge with weapons swinging, and Kazar unleashed the pent-up tension in the form of an arc of lightning stinging into the line. Most of them stumbled where they ran, but none fell. He heard cries of _"Saarabas_!" and braced himself as six of them turned to charge him.

Kazar's senses buzzed as Fenris' silver markings flared to life, and the taller elf charged through four of them… literally _through_ them, like he was a ghost with a giant sword. Two of them stopped to engage Fenris, and Isabela lunged at the third with whirling daggers. Hawke made herself known to two more of them, swinging her halberd low to trip one, then bringing it up into the face of another.

Three of the rogue Qunari were still coming, though. Kazar planted his feet and summoned fire to the end of his staff, perfectly happy to stand his ground. A wave of his staff and an exertion of will called a firestorm down on the enemy, the trio of brutes stopping mid-charge to raise their arms against the flaming cyclone of death that descended on them, blackening their grey skin within seconds.

Kazar grinned, the thrill of battle going through him. Ha! He'd fought dragons and broodmothers and monstrous hordes... this was _nothing!_ He was a master of the elements. He was one of the most powerful mages of his generation, nigh unto a god, and he…

…and he was losing control. _Shit._

He backpedalled, both mentally and physically, and the spell stuttered and sputtered out, leaving three charred shapes in its wake that may or may not have still been alive. The buzzing of Fenris' markings nearby became a tug against his control.

_I'm mortal._

There was movement from his left side, and Kazar moved right in time to not be bisected by a greatsword that came down at him. A blast of lightning burned his attacker from within, but it was kind of distracting to try to find his center when warriors easily three times his size were intent on killing him. He hit the bulk of another Qunari behind him, and slammed up a shield made of fire in all directions until he could get his bearings.

_I'm weak._

The Qunari behind him hissed in pain, but nonetheless braved the fire anyway to slam him in the side with an elbow. Kazar stumbled, air suddenly gone from his lungs.

_I couldn't protect Meila or Jowan orMerrill or…_

A pommel slammed into his upper back _hard_ , and he felt something crack as he went tumbling to the dirt. The demon inside him shrieked to be let out, to be allowed to defend himself against the attacks, and it took all Kazar's concentration to clamp down on it.

A glowing form streaked through his attacker, cutting him nearly in half at the waist. Kazar slumped onto the ground in relief, trying to breathe through a sharp red pain in his chest.

Opponent brutally slain, Fenris then joined Hawke to fight off the last two. Watching the pair wipe up the last of the Qunari was like watching a rehearsed dance… the two leapt and spun around one another with the ease of practice, fighting back-to-back one moment and then both leaping into their respective opponents with two-handed weapons sweeping the next.

Isabela knelt beside Kazar and handed him a healing potion, and he had the presence of mind to nod his thanks before downing it.

Hawke yanked her halberd out of the throat of the last Qunari and turned toward them, looking out of breath and not a little cut up, yet invigorated. She smiled, heedless of the blood spattering her armor and skin, and let out a low whistle as she surveyed the burned husks where Kazar had dropped his firestorm. "Well, that's one way to do it." She grinned down at Kazar. "Though you're kind of squishy of all that power, aren't you?"

For all his forced control, Kazar's Pride spiked. "Let's see _you_ get smashed in the ribs by something three times your weight and see how well you keep your feet."

A knowing grin met that declaration, but she didn't say anything else, simply turned to start checking pockets. Kazar seethed; he had to take a few deep breaths, his mantra running through his head until he got himself under control.

He was feeling more himself by the time Hawke had picked the corpses and was ready to go. The four of them continued up the road in silence.

o-o-o-o

The rest of the morning saw a scattering of minor encounters… a handful of bandits attacking here, a group of harried refugees asking for directions there… Nothing that took more than a lightning bolt or a vine net on Kazar's part before Hawke had resolved it one way or another. He was proving how useful mages could be, he supposed, but her earlier teasing still rankled... and if Fenris didn't stop watching him like he was about to go rabid at any moment, he really would start killing things.

The trip was silent for the most part, save for the occasional casual conversation between Isabela and Fenris. Kazar picked herbs for Elegant while he walked.

Around noon, they followed the path into a rocky clearing about halfway up the mountain. A stone beacon rose off one edge, and there was scattered debris nearby that appeared to have once been a pile of crates left by the side of the road.

Hawke sauntered over to a bear-sized boulder and sat on it. "Looks like a good place to stop for lunch. Who's buying?"

Fenris rolled his eyes and dryly said, "Very funny, Hawke."

Hawke grinned. "I thought so." She unstrapped her halberd and leaned it against the boulder beside her, then plunked her pack at her feet and dug through it. "Mother was in a spoiling mood this morning, so she made some pastries." She pulled out a sack and presented it for display.

"Your mother's baking is quite exquisite," Fenris said, sitting on the ground with his back against Hawke's boulder.

Hawke shrugged and opened the sack, tossing him a small, round, doughy confection. "And you shamelessly butter her up to get her to give you more."

"That I do."

Isabela sprawled on the ground on Hawke's other side. "Not the Hawke I'd have thought you interested in buttering, Fenris… but what do I know?"

Fenris snorted, and Hawke dropped the sack on Isabela's face. The Rivaini burst out laughing under the cloth.

Hawke turned to Kazar and motioned toward the bag on her friend's head. "Go ahead and take one. There are plenty to go around." When Kazar didn't go for it right away, she tilted her head. "Unless the Dalish have something against human-made foods? Merrill's never mentioned anything about it, but that girl _is_ accommodating to a fault about most things."

Kazar shook his head and stepped forward to pluck one of the pastries from the bag. They looked a lot like the sorts of biscuits that had been served on occasion at the Circle Tower. Those had always been dry and bland… just like everything else served at the Circle.

While Kazar sniffed warily at his roll and Isabela moved the bag of pastries from her face to her chest, Fenris glanced up at Hawke. "So how long is this patrol route, pray tell?"

Hawke shrugged. "A couple hours, at most. We're most of the way done with it now."

"And you deemed it necessary to set aside the entire day to clear it?"

Hawke waved her hands helplessly. "All right, you caught me. Honestly, I just wanted to get out of Kirkwall for a while."

"Any particular reason, love?" Isabela asked.

Hawke rolled her eyes. "My mother, mostly. You know, two days ago she suggested I consider the prospects of Bran's son. Which would make _Bran_ my _father-in-law._ " She shuddered theatrically. "I'm tempted to ask Varric to marry me, just to get Mother off my back."

Isabela set the sack aside and sat up. "Why Varric?"

"Are you kidding? Have you _seen_ his chest hair?" Hawke winked and both women burst out laughing. Kazar found himself exchanging a look with Fenris, neither of them quite getting the joke.

Kazar looked back down at the roll in his hand. Experimentally, he bit into it, and was surprised not to find a hard, dry hunk of stale dough. No, this was _soft_ , and flakey, and a little sweet without being too sweet. And there appeared to be some sort of berry jam in the center. It was fantastic.

"I think Mother's baking just gave him a religious experience." Hawke was smirking at him.

Isabela said, "If you can believe it, they're even better warm."

Curious, Kazar cast the fire spell he usually used to warm food, making Fenris hiss and narrow his eyes. Hawke and Isabela, on the other hand, only watched curiously as he evenly coated the confection with fire just warm enough to heat the dough.

Sure enough, the warmed roll was even softer, somehow sweetening the effect of the jam. Kazar devoured the pastry, and happily took another when Hawke offered it.

As he set about heating the second one, Hawke watched with a lopsided grin. "Apparently, they don't have berry rolls among the Dalish."

"Or the Wardens," Kazar admitted. "Or the Circle." He took a bite, and the second was just as good as the first. He needed to find someone who sold these. "I have never tasted anything like this in my life."

"Oh, you poor deprived thing," Isabela cooed, and he shot her a dirty look between bites.

"What was that thing you did?" Hawke asked curiously. "With the fire?"

"Hawke…" Fenris growled, which she ignored.

Kazar finished his roll and found himself at a loss with what to do with his jam-smeared hands. He settled for bending down and wiping them on the ground. "Just a little warming spell. It comes in handy for heating food and getting snow off your boots." He glanced at the other elf. "Quite a nefarious use of magic, I know."

He was rewarded with a scowl, but Hawke leaned forward in her seat. "My father used to do things like that. Using magic for everyday tasks, I mean." She sat back, smiling wistfully. "When Bethany was little, she used to love songbirds. So, one time, he used magic to shape this little birdhouse out of driftwood. She loved watching Father do it as much as she loved the birdhouse itself. For weeks afterward, she asked every day for him to make another one, and he did each time."

Wistful silence filled the camp, until Kazar broke it with, "So your father was an apostate?"

She nodded slowly. "We spent our whole lives on the run, always hiding what we were and moving onto the next town as soon as someone guessed. It was exhausting… we never really had a place to set down roots, you know?"

Kazar nodded, because he did.

"I think that's why Mother was so dead-set on coming back here. After he and Bethany died, we didn't have to hide anymore…" Her voice trailed off, and there was a long moment when her brow furrowed as she stared at nothing. Then, she shook her head. "Still, I miss being able to go to him with all my scraped knees and having him fix them up. I always figured he'd be there forever."

"Hawke…" Fenris said thickly.

Hawke shook herself and forced a smile, chasing the heavy air that surrounded them away by sheer willpower. "Well, let's get back to work. Aveline will need every bit of help wooing her man that she can get."

o-o-o-o

A few hours and one attack by wolves later, Hawke dropped back to walk beside Kazar. Both Fenris and Isabela glanced at her curiously as she did, but kept walking without comment.

"So," Hawke said, "full disclosure. I didn't just bring you here to zap bandits."

"All right," Kazar said uncertainly.

"I need you to do one other favor for me, and then we'll call it even."

"Uh-huh. What, exactly, is this favor?"

She fastened an intense look on him. "I need you to buy the knife from me."

Kazar stopped walking, and the other three followed suit.

"What."

"The knife? You know the Dalish knife that Keeper Mare–"

"I know which knife!" His voice came out high-pitched. "Why in the Fade would you want to sell the _Arulin'Holm_?"

She blinked in bafflement, as if _he_ were the one being incomprehensible here. "Well, I can't keep it."

He found his hands tugging at his hair. "Start making sense. _Please_."

Hawke sighed and dug her halberd into the ground. "Look, I never really wanted the thing, right? I just did that Dalish quest-ritual thing to try to prove a point to Merrill. Succeeded with the quest, failed with the point, as you know."

Fenris could be heard mumbling, "As if we could expect any other outcome from the blood mage." Kazar shot him a dirty look.

"So now I have a conundrum. I have this ancient elven artifact in my possession, and, what with not being an elf and all, no real right to keep it. If it were up to me, I'd just give it back to the Dalish and be done with it."

"Then why don't you?" Kazar asked.

"Assuming they'd even accept it? I have a reputation to maintain. I can't just start giving out charity all willy-nilly. Everyone would want some, and everyone _already_ constantly wants my help even _with_ my exorbitant prices. _But_ … if I _sell_ it to someone likely to return it to the Dalish, then it's still me being an insensitive profiteer while making sure it gets where it needs to go."

Kazar found himself staring at her, and he wasn't the only one.

"Holy shit, Hawke," Isabela mumbled.

"Hawke," Fenris asked slowly, "What makes you so sure he won't simply give it to the blood mage? Or use it himself?"

Hawke rolled her eyes. "He left the Dalish purely to keep Merrill out of trouble. He's not going to use it."

Kazar nodded, and she turned to him.

"So what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

"No," Kazar said, making her frown. "There's kind of a gaping flaw in your plan. I can't afford an ancient Dalish artifact. I can barely afford _food_."

Hawke shrugged. "How much do you have on you right now?"

"Uh…" He checked his pouch. "Seven copper pieces."

"I'll sell it to you for four." At his flabbergasted expression, she only winked. "What? It's the gesture that's important, not the actual price."

Isabela made a face in the background, and Kazar took a moment to marvel at the strange, oddly brilliant woman in front of him. "All right."

"It's a deal, then!" She grinned and swooped forward to shake his hand. He felt distinctly like he was being swept up by a cyclone and wasn't sure how to stop it.


	24. Avoid the Gallows

Kazar sat on his broken cot. The _Arulin'Holm_ 's case was set in front of him, opened to reveal the knife inside.

It was a carving tool, flat and thick, but also carrying the same grace that the elves put into everything. The handle was a bone mass of loops and curls, and runes ran long the edges.

Whispers tickled the edges of his hearing, telling him the things he could do with this knife. His eyes ran over the curves of the blade while his mind tangled itself over the possibilities. He could go over to Merrill's house right now… it was just across the square. Finish what she had begun.

Footsteps in his still-broken doorway pulled him out of his spiral, accompanied by a "Kazar? Are you home?"

Merrill.

_Shit._

Kazar hastily shut the case, all thoughts of power wiped from his mind by panic. "Hold on! One second!"

He managed to shove the box under the cot and scramble to his feet just as Merrill poked her head into the closet that passed as his bedchamber.

" _Fuck_ , Merrill! Don't just barge in like that!" he snapped, storming out into his main room, hoping she didn't notice the case under the bed. "What if I'd been indecent?"

Merrill followed. "Well it's not like it's anything I haven't seen before, is it?"

 _"What_?!"

"I've helped Keeper Marethari tend to the sick. It's just part of Keeper training."

Oh. Oh, she was talking about male anatomy in _general_. With a sigh, Kazar slumped onto one of his stools and let his forehead fall to the table. "That is so insanely not the point, Merrill."

She settled into the other stool, and he glanced up to see her looking around his apartment.

"This is certainly cozy, isn't it?"

"It's tiny and cramped."

She shrugged. "I've lived in _aravels_ most of my life. This is definitely an improvement, wouldn't you say? Even with the… erm… door."

He could concede that point… he'd lived out of tents during the Blight and then _aravels_ with the Dalish. At least this little hole in the wall had enough room to stand up in and it didn't leak when it rained. Much.

"Merrill, what are you doing here?"

Her eyes snapped back to him and froze there like a deer caught by a hunter. "What makes you think I have an ulterior motive? That is awful suspicious of you, don't you think? I could just be visiting a–"

"Merrill."

She cut herself off and sighed, her gaze dropping to her hands as she fidgeted with her scarf. "I need some moral support today."

"Moral support? From _me_? The partial you-know-what?"

She smiled a little bit at that, glancing sidelong at him. "Believe it or not, yes."

Believe it, he did not. He leaned back on his stool, making it wobble precariously. "Moral support for what, exactly?"

"Well, you know the other day, when I said I'd go out with Hawke next time? Apparently, she took it literally." Her voice sped up, her words tumbling over themselves in that way they did when she had too much to say all at once. "And now she's down by the _vhenedahl_ talking to Arianni about checking on her son, and she fully intends to take me along even though this will most likely mean a trip to the Gallows. The Gallows is such a dreary place and everyone there stares at me, and more than one of the mages in there was put there by Hawke. It just doesn't make sense to me that someone can be friends with two free mages and yet send half the mages we meet to live in that place. I know you know how it feels, since you grew up in one, and then you ran away from it. So that's why I need you to come with me." She finished with a nod and glanced up at him, her face contorting to confusion. "What?"

Belatedly, he realized he was smiling. He shook his head, not quite sure himself. "It's been a long time since you chattered at me like that."

She blinked and, more slowly, said, "Well, it's been a long time since you've let me. Usually, you're too busy lecturing me about blood magic."

"Can you blame me?" He waved his hands over himself.

"Not really, but one does get sick of hearing the same lecture from five different voices all the time."

"Five?"

"You. The Keeper. Hawke. Anders. Fenris."

"By the Fade, Merrill. You don't exactly lay low about this, do you?"

"No, I suppose not." Her eyes dropped again. "It's not wrong, so I never saw any reason to hide it."

Kazar opened his mouth to say something, but she looked up at him sharply, as if she could sense it. He snapped his mouth shut again and sighed. After a moment of thought, he said, "For me, it was a fellow Warden named Felicity."

That startled her. "What was?"

"The lecturer." She watched him curiously now… he'd never shared this part before. "When she found out I was using blood magic, she acted like I was changing into a demon right before her eyes. She'd quote all these… precedents of mages who turned to blood magic and ended badly. She was so preachy and self-righteous about it that sometimes I just wanted to strangle her in her sleep."

To his surprise, Merrill giggled, a hand snapping to her mouth. "If it helps, I have not yet quite gotten to the point of wanting to strangle you."

"You'll get there. Most people do."

"I can't say that I've ever really wanted to strangle anyone." She shrugged. "If they upset me, I think I'd rather tie them up in vines and leave them there to think about what they've done."

Kazar snorted.

"So what do you say? Can you come with me?"

This was the first time in three years they'd navigated a conversation without fighting, and he was reminded just how hard it was to stay angry at those big, mossy green eyes. "Eh, sure. It's not like I have anything more important I could be doing today."

She grinned brightly and jumped to her feet, and he stood. He hesitated over whether he should bring his staff to the Kirkwall Circle (on the one hand, it was an obvious indicator that he was a mage, on the other hand, it was also a defense against Templars) when Merrill made his decision for him by grabbing his arm and yanking him out the door without it.

She dragged him out into the Alienage where, indeed, Hawke was down by the community's tree, talking to Arianni. Next to her were Varric and Aveline.

Varric gave them a warm smile as they pulled up, and Aveline greeted them with a cordial nod.

Merrill giggled. "So how did last night go, Aveline?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Her voice was flat, but there was a smile on her face.

"Now now, no need to be shy," Varric said warmly. "We've all heard the tale by now. A night alone out on patrol with a handsome man. The Wounded Coast wind tugging at your hair. Romance blooming in the moonlight."

Kazar snorted. He'd been there, and the only thing that had bloomed the evening before had been Aveline's increasingly cringe-worthy attempts at conversation. The rest of them had eavesdropped for nearly an hour before Isabela hadn't been able to take anymore and had shouted, "Just bend her over a barrel already!"

Apparently, the pair had managed to salvage it and hook up anyway, because Hawke had this obnoxious way of getting everything she wanted.

"Hey, we seem to have an extra party member," Hawke said as she joined their group. She grinned at Kazar. "Tagging along again? I'd have thought you'd have had enough of my hijinks yesterday."

Kazar glanced at Merrill, who grinned. "Apparently not. I'm sure I'll come to my senses soon."

"That's what we all said, at one point," Varric said, shaking his head in pity. "So, what's up, Hawke?"

Hawke switched from playful to business-like immediately and started to lead them out of the Alienage. "Arianni says she's been getting weird letters from Feynriel lately. Worse, he was supposed to write yesterday, but she didn't receive anything. When she went to the Gallows to ask if he'd written, the Templars curtly brushed her off."

Kazar said, "So you're going to ask the same question and hope you don't get the same response?"

Hawke flashed a sharp, dangerous smile over her shoulder at him. "Oh, I expect to. But they, like you, will find out soon enough that I am not so easily brushed off."

o-o-o-o

The Gallows was one of the most depressing places Kazar had ever been. And he'd been in Ostagar after the horde had moved on. He'd been in Denerim while it was swarming with evil Taint-monsters. He'd been in an abandoned thaig in the Deep Roads that had been turned into the spawning grounds of a broodmother who had once been a dwarf.

This was at about that level.

The high walls were as heartless and forbidding as they were all over the rest of the city, except there were no decorations here… no lanterns or curtains hanging in high windows. No personal affectations existed here at all; it was all stark and uniform and entirely crushed of all hint of soul.

The courtyard was open to the sunlight, which beat down relentlessly like it was trying to bake your face off. Tranquil bearing sun-shaped markings on their foreheads crossed the square in brisk, efficient steps, no doubt heading to their next tasks. Templars lingered more, heads turning to watch Hawke strut by.

Kazar shivered, glad that, for once, he was in the shadow of someone much more attention-grabbing than he was. Even lacking a staff, he couldn't help the feeling that he must be easy to identify as a mage.

It took Kazar a couple seconds to realize that there was something missing in this Circle of Mages: namely, the mages. There was not a single mage in the courtyard. Wasn't this part of the Circle? Where were they?

He glanced at Merrill, and she met his expression with thinned lips.

Why would anyone willingly send _anyone_ here?

"Oy!" Hawke called across the square. "Cullen!"

 _Cullen_?

Kazar feigned a sudden interest in a wall carving and ducked behind a pillar, breaking apart from the group. Peeking around the other side of the pillar, he was glad he had.

Because sure enough, standing at the base of a giant staircase and wearing Knight-Captain armor was fricking _Cullen_. Growing up, Kazar had made a point of knowing all the Templars who regularly kept watch over the apprentices, along with their pet peeves and least favorite elements… but Cullen had been one of the nicer ones. Actually treating the mages like people and all that.

Then, the Blight had happened. Kazar had thankfully avoided the entire abominations-taking-over-the-Circle-Tower scenario, but to hear Felicity and Alistair tell it, it hadn't been pretty. Felicity, who had once conducted a poorly kept secret affair with the Templar, had stumbled into him tortured and half-mad from blood magic and lyrium withdrawal. In fact, the phrase Alistair had used was "completely off his nut." Cullen didn't look so crazy now, but Kazar wasn't taking chances.

After all, if anyone would have heard about Kazar and his little condition, it would have been a Templar who was on active duty in Ferelden during the Blight. Cullen had not been in that square when Kazar had lit it up, but just about the entire rest of the Order had. There was no way Cullen had not been told what Kazar was. And if he saw and recognized Kazar, there was no way he'd be allowed to leave this place with what was left of his soul intact.

"Oh Captain, my Captain!" Hawke's voice carried throughout the courtyard, but no one else even glanced up. "Have I got a question for you!"

"Hawke," Cullen's voice replied evenly. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you."

"Excellent, we're expected! Then you know why I'm here."

"I do know why, and I'm afraid I am not allowed to discuss the details with you at this time."

" _Cullen_ –"

"No, Hawke. My hands are tied."

Kazar leaned back against the column, trying to look casual. Just another one of Hawke's menagerie of companions… nothing to notice here.

Oddly enough, no one cast him more than a passing glance. He wondered what that said about Hawke.

"Then let me in to see the Knight-Commander. I know you want to sic me on her instead of having me harass you all the time."

"Believe me, Hawke: I would love nothing more. However, Meredith has very important business to attend to, what with the Qunari disturbances throughout the city. Which, I have heard, you have something of a hand in?"

"Psh. I just found a lost patrol for the Arishok. I'm not involved."

"Hawke, I believe the very fact that you are on speaking terms with the Arishok shows how involved you are."

Kazar noted a gaggle of Tranquil in one corner. They were going through crates that some porters had just brought in. One of the Tranquil had a ledger. Tranquil were good at administrative work like that… you got used to seeing them, growing up in a Circle.

Didn't make their existence any less unsettling, though. They'd been people once.

"Look," Hawke said, "you know I'm just going to get it out of someone here, so you might as well tell me where Feynriel is now."

Cullen released a long-suffering sigh. Kazar got the impression that people did that a lot around Hawke. "All right, I will fetch… one of the recruits on the project."

His footsteps faded away, and Kazar peeked around his column to see the Templar heading up the stairs and through a set of gigantic double doors. Was that where the Circle was? Behind that forboding set of doors? This place was worse than Kinloch Hold.

Then, there was a dwarf in front of him, looking decidedly amused. "So what might you be doing over here, Sparky?"

Reluctantly, Kazar let Varric draw him out of his hiding place. "I… uh… saw something I really wanted to look at?"

Varric chuckled and patted him on the back. "Nice try, but you're almost as bad at bluffing as Anders. Maybe it's a mage thing."

Hawke met him with a smirk of her own. "I'm going to guess… you owe Cullen money?"

"No..."

"Stole his girl?"

"What?"

"Stole his _guy_?"

" _What_?"

Merrill _giggled_ , and Kazar swung a betrayed look in her direction.

"Well, whatever you did," Hawke finished, "you should probably go apologize."

"Why are you so sure _I_ did anything?!"

"Because Cullen's a cuddly-bear and you're…" She waved a hand vaguely.

"A menace?" Aveline suggested.

"A patch of brambles!" Merrill said.

"A _character_ ," said Varric with a smirk.

Kazar threw his hands in the air, feeling utterly outnumbered. "You're all terrible people. Just so you know."

This had all of them laughing, even Aveline, who smiled into her hand. It was the sort of easy laughter he'd missed while among the Dalish. A taste of the sort of camaraderie that he'd only felt with the other Wardens.

The heavy doors thudded open and closed, and they all turned. Down the stairs walked a black-haired young Templar wearing a sour expression. He stopped in front of Hawke and crossed his arms. "Well?"

Hawke put her hands on her hips. "Well, hello to you too, Carver."

"What do you want, sister?"

Ah. That explained a lot.

"Why yes, Mother's fine, thank you for your concern."

"Gabby."

She punched him.

And now Kazar was confused again.

While the younger Hawke doubled over, holding his nose and cursing, the elder said. "I guess since you're being such a child, we'll get right to business. What's the deal with Feynriel?"

"He's in quarantine," Carver said, standing up straight but still holding his nose, giving his voice a nasally quality. "You can't see him."

"Well, _why_ is he in quarantine? Last time I visited, he seemed fine."

"It's not really your business." The Templar recruit dropped his hand and eyed the rest of the companions. "Hello Aveline, Varric. Merrill."

"How are you, Carver?" Aveline said politely.

"No no," Hawke cut in, waving an arm in front of Carver's face to get his attention. "The time for exchanging pleasantries has passed. Now is the time for wringing the situation with Feynriel out of my baby brother."

Carver ignored her and nodded at Kazar. "Who's this?"

Kazar did not like being the sole focus of a Templar recruit, so he was grateful when Hawke interrupted with, " _And_ we are not changing the subject. Carver. Feynriel. Now."

Carver's attention went back to his sister with a sigh. "Look, we've got the situation under control. It's been three years since you saved him, sister. You don't need to feel responsible for him anymore."

That made her open and close her mouth a couple times before she settled on crossing her arms and saying, "I'm not here for me. Arianni is beside herself with worry."

"Sure. That's it."

"Damn it, Carver."

"Maybe," Merrill piped up, "there's something we could do to help?"

Carver glanced at her, and his expression softened. "Maybe." He glanced around the courtyard in an obvious manner.

"Meet you behind the Formari stall in ten?" Varric suggested.

Carver grumbled, but nodded, and the party broke away to head across the courtyard. As they got out of hearing range, Kazar offered a flat, "So he's charming."

"Isn't he just?" Hawke sighed and spun to walk backwards. "I swear that in the womb Bethany got all the charm and likability, and he got all the different ways of being petulant."

Firmly, Aveline said, "You don't make much of an effort not to rile him up, Hawke."

She shrugged and nearly ran into a pair of Tranquil, but they moved out of the way at the last minute. "Can you blame me? It's fun and so _easy_."

"Exactly," Varric said. "There's not much sport in it."

"And who ever said I was a good sport?" She winked. "You're not the only one who cheats at Diamondback ."

"Oh ho. Is that so?"

"Wait," Merrill said. "Who cheats at Diamondback?"

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Daisy."

Aveline sighed and rubbed her forehead.

Kazar shivered as he felt eyes on him. He glanced around, but didn't see anything but Tranquil going about their business and a bunch of metal suits. This whole place was making him paranoid.

They wandered around the courtyard for a while, Hawke greeting a number of Templars with "Hey, you're that guy I saved from abominations, right?" and "So how are you doing since I wiped out that nest of blood mages for you?" She then spent a couple minutes haggling at a stall (something about dragon-proofing her armor?). At about the time Kazar spotted Carver lurking behind a row of stalls, Hawke pulled away and headed toward him.

"Ah, sneaking around under the Templars' noses," Hawke said as they drew up beside him. "Almost makes me nostalgic."

"Not me," Carver grumbled, and Hawke was right… he _was_ petulant. "You're lucky the captain likes you, or else he'd never have let me out here to talk to you."

Hawke turned a grin back at Aveline. "Told you he likes me."

"Or maybe he's just tired of dealing with your messes," Aveline deadpanned. "I know the feeling."

"Psh. That's just guard talk." She turned back to the Templar recruit. "So, what's up?"

Carver sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Feynriel… may have fallen asleep. Three days ago."

"And… what? He had demonic nightmares? He had horrible bed-head? Details, Carver!"

"He didn't wake up, all right?" Carver huffed, glancing around and lowering his voice. "He _hasn't_ woken up."

"Ah."

"What, 'ah?' There's no 'ah' here." Carver crossed his arms. "A mage apprentice fell asleep and is no doubt under the sway of demons in the Fade _right now_ , and there's nothing you could possibly do about it except what we've already tried."

"Really? You tried dumping a glass of cold water on his face, did you?"

" _Gabby_."

As if on reflex, she kicked out toward his kneecap. He skittered back out of range, obviously expecting the move, and neither of them acknowledged the action, as if assault against her own flesh and blood was a daily occurrence for her (which, knowing Hawke, it may very well have been). "It seems like this is the sort of thing you should tell his mother, don't you think?"

"And worry her?" Carver was completely unflapped by the random violence. "It might be nothing. It might be everything. We don't want to cause her unnecessary distress if he wakes up tomorrow perfectly fine."

Aveline tilted her head. "But you don't expect him to."

"No. We don't."

Hawke tapped her chin in thought. "So this sort of thing hasn't happened before?"

"Not that any of the Order knows. Or the mages. As far as they're telling, anyway."

Varric arched a brow. "Do I detect some difficulties with the locals, Junior?"

"Let's just say that having the same name as the person who put half of them in here hasn't been making me any friends."

"Being a Templar probably doesn't help either," Kazar snarked, earning him a glare from the younger Hawke.

Aveline asked, "Do you suspect someone of withholding information?"

"No, not really." Carver sighed. "The First Enchanter seems as stumped as the rest of us. He's never heard of anything like this before, either."

Hawke nodded and turned to glance over her assembled companions. "That the case with you guys too?"

And Kazar realized that it was not. As the others nodded and shrugged, Kazar found himself staring at his feet as he recalled a sleeping old Arl under demonic influence. But no, that had been poison. This was more like… something else that had happened at the same time. Something he'd only had relayed to him.

He tried to recall everything he'd been told about the incident at Kinloch Hold during the Blight. A Sloth Demon… everyone being sucked into the Fade… damn it, why hadn't he paid more attention to Felicity's nattering?

"Sparky? You have something?"

He glanced over at Varric, who regarded him with an expectant expression. Leave it to the dwarf to read his mind… the guy was uncanny. "I… might have heard of something."

Hawke sent her brother a triumphant smirk. "Share with the class?"

Kazar sighed. "I wasn't there but… I heard of something that happened during the Blight. When demons took over the Ferelden Circle Tower, most of the inhabitants became either abominations or corpses… but there was this one major Sloth Demon who put people to sleep instead." He glanced at the Templar, unwilling to give any more identifying details than that.

Carver furrowed his brow. "Captain Cullen was there, and he never mentioned anything like that."

"Well, to hear certain witnesses, he was busy going crazy at the time."

" _Watch it,_ elf."

Hawke stepped between the two. "Easy, boys. Kazar, you think this might be a Sloth Demon?"

He shrugged, still glaring at the Templar recruit. "Maybe not Sloth, but it does show that demons can keep people in the Fade for extended periods of time."

Varric asked, "Your sources mention whether they broke the curse?"

Kazar shifted uncomfortably. "Something about… going into the Fade and waking them up by dispelling the illusions?" He hesitated before revealing the next part. "I do know that, if a demon does have a hold on him, you can help release its grip on him by going into the Fade and defeating it there. Provided the demon hasn't dug itself too far into his psyche yet." He was very much not looking at Merrill. "If that's happened, it's better to just to put him out of his misery."

Merrill's stare _burned_ into the side of his head, and he swore that Varric's gaze was dissecting him. Carver, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. "Who did you say you were again?"

"Someone who might have just given us our solution," Hawke said cheerfully. "So, we can just take a peek into his dreams, make sure he's okay, and then leave again. Nothing too nefarious about that, right?"

The Templar gave his sister a bewildered look. "Maybe, except I've never heard of any spell that can do that."

Hawke swung her gaze back to Kazar, who was just taking a breath to speak, but then he stopped himself cold.

Because he did know a spell. Or rather, Jowan had known a spell.

A blood magic spell.

Kazar shut his mouth with a snap and forced a shrug.

Hawke set a hand to her chin, and everyone watched her ponder with varying levels of consternation. "It sounds like it can be done. But if the First Enchanter doesn't know…" She snapped her fingers and spun to face Merrill, who jumped. "What about your Keeper?"

"I… I'm not sure."

Hawke clapped her hands. "Let's go ask her."

Carver sputtered, "Now wait a minute-"

"Fear not, dear brother. We will chase off your entrapped mage's bogeyman, have no fear!"

"You have no jurisdiction to do this! This is not a _quest_!"

"Of course it is," she said cheerfully. "There's someone in need, and I exist to swoop in and save the day." She offered her brother a salute and started away. "Be a dear and let Cullen know that I may have to kidnap Feynriel in the near future!"

Carver buried his face in his hands and muttered a low "Maker's breath" as they walked away.


	25. Nothing is More Stubborn than a Dalish on a Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, what?! An update to Apostate's Guide?! 
> 
> Yes! And believe it or not, I've got about ten chapters written after this one!
> 
> However, due to how sporadically I've been able to work on this story between real life and other projects, I've come to a decision: I am officially putting this story on hiatus. Not indefinitely! I am still working on it, I swear. But I want to make sure that the next time I update, I can do so in a way that is satisfying and worth the wait.
> 
> In other words: the next time you see this updated, it will be because I've finished it. At that point, updates will come hard and fast, just like they did for ARLD back in the day.
> 
> So if anyone is still hanging onto this story (or hoping for an Inquisition sequel, which is in the works, but can't happen until this one is finished), hang on a bit longer! I can't say how long this is going to take to finish. Maybe another two years. But it _will_ be finished. Until then, thank you for your patience. Anyone still reading (either this series or this note), you are awesome and I thank you for letting me share my silly little stories with you. :)

As they took the ferry from the Gallows back to Kirkwall proper, Kazar realized that he should pick up the _Arulin’Holm_ to bring back to the clan, and begged Hawke to take a quick detour to the Alienage. Hawke thought it a splendid idea, since this would let them update Arianni on their progress.

“Communication with my clients is important for maintaining a professional demeanor,” she said, and Kazar would have bet his staff that the phrase came from Varric.

Merrill thrummed with nervous energy as they descended into the Alienage, and, sure enough, Arianni was hovering near the _vhenedahl_. When she spotted Hawke, it was probably only some hard-bred Dalish dignity that stopped her from running to the human.

“Did you get in? Did you see him? Is he all right?” Arianni’s eyes flickered around, resting a second longer on Merrill and Kazar, but then returned to Hawke.

“He’ll be fine,” Hawke said with utmost confidence. “I wheedled the problem out of the Templars, and now I’m taking care of it.”

The mother bowed her head. “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you for this.”

Kazar excused himself before it got too sappy, heading toward his little apartment. A glance back, however, made him pause.

Merrill looked like a trapped animal. She huddled by Hawke’s side, tight with tension while her eyes flickered from Hawke to her own door. She looked nervous… no, more than that. Anxious, and angry, and fearful all at the same time. But that didn’t make sense. She’d gone out with Hawke who-knew-how-many times. Why would she…

Oh.

Kazar stepped back to the group and grabbed Merrill by the arm. When Aveline cast them a curious glance, he muttered something about needing help with something, then tugged the other elf away, back toward his house.

After a few steps, she pulled away and followed him on her own. “Kazar, what is it? What do you need help with?”

“Nothing. That was a lie.” Still, as he climbed onto the walkway, she followed all the way through his broken doorway.

Only once inside, in relative privacy, did he turn to regard her. Merrill watched him with wide green eyes.

“You don’t have to come with,” he blurted, then winced. That was the exact _opposite_ of why he was even in Kirkwall. But still, something about her posture out in the square had just sent needles straight up his spine.

“Hawke’s going to want me to,” Merrill said, and she didn’t sound excited about the prospect.

“And you do everything Hawke tells you to?”

“Well, not everything.” She chewed her lip, and Kazar knew exactly what she was thinking about. “But still, she’s my friend, and so if she wants me to come with her to Sundermount, then that is where I am going.” Her head drooped. “Even if it means that everyone will give me that look again.”

Yeah, he knew what look she was talking about. The one that all the mages and Templars in the Palace District had given him, right after he’d blasted the archdemon out of the air. The one that the clan had given him, right before he’d left. The one that said, “You’re a monster.” He was more than passing familiar with that look.

Slowly, he shook his head. “You’re not ready.”

“Not… ready?” Her brows lowered quizzically. “Not ready for what?”

“To go back.” He could see that now. She was still stubbornly clinging to something that was very dangerous and still completely blind to what it was doing to everyone. For some reason, Kazar keenly wanted her to walk back into that clan with her head on straight and a smile on her face. He wanted them to be able to welcome her back, and for her to _feel_ welcome. “You need more time to find your path.”

Her quizzical look quirked, and then she raised a hand to her mouth and let out a snuffle-squeak that Kazar realized was a badly arrested giggle.

“What?”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “It’s just, you sounded so much like the Keeper just now.”

He blinked and replayed the words he’d said, then snorted incredulously. She was right.

“Still, I think you have a point,” she sighed. “When I go back, I want to show them what I’ve worked so hard for. That it’s safe, and that it was worth everything to bring a piece of our history back.”

“And I want to show them that you’ve come to your senses,” Kazar said, daring her to argue with him.

She didn’t argue, just smiled a chirpy little smile. “It’ll be a contest, then. May the best elf win?”

He snuffed a laugh. “Or the most stubborn.”

“I am told I’m quite good at digging my heels in, you know.”

“We’ll see.”

There were footsteps on the wooden walkway outside, and then Hawke poked her head through the doorway. “There you are. You two ready to go?”

The two elves exchanged a glance. Then, Merrill turned and squared her shoulders. “Hawke. _Abelas_ , but I will not be going with you to Sundermount.”

The human blinked. “Okay.” And that was that. She turned to Kazar. “You coming?”

“You still want me?”

She shrugged. “Why not? It’s certainly better than wandering the slopes of Sundermount looking for the camp. I get so lost up there without a guide.”

“That is true,” Merrill said to Kazar. “She gets distracted by every cave and ruin, and then before you know it she’s wandered so far off the path that we’re on a different mountain.”

“That’s only happened, like, four times.”

“Once, she got lost out there with Varric for three days. It’s one of the reasons he hates going outside Kirkwall with her.”

Kazar couldn’t help but laugh at that mental image of the usually charming, well-groomed dwarf slogging through the forests of the coastal region. “He probably had a _beard_ by the time he came back.”

“Ugh,” Hawke gave an exaggerated shudder. “Don’t remind me. I’ll never be the same after seeing as much hair on his chin as on his chest.” She turned and headed back toward the square, and Kazar found himself glancing at Merrill.

She smiled, and so he grabbed up his staff and then turned to follow Hawke.

It was only as the party was leaving the city through the east gates that Kazar realized that he’d forgotten to grab the _Arulin’Holm_.

o-o-o-o

As the trees gave way to mountain scrub and the Dalish trail markers started indicating the perimeter of camp patrols, Kazar heard the distinctive sound of scout birdcalls. One to their left, then another from behind them. The scouts were signaling that they’d detected signs of passage.

Hawke, Aveline, and a somewhat reluctant Varric paused, looking around nervously. Kazar, however, let out a call of his own, identifying him as a member of the clan heading into camp. Then, he waited.

A moment later, there was a rustling in the scrub to his left, and Terath emerged. As soon as he saw Kazar, he scowled. “You have a lot of nerve, _harellan_.”

_Harellan_. Deceiver.

Fenarel stepped out of the ruins on the opposite side of path with bow raised. He lowered it when he saw Kazar, but didn’t put it away. “What are you doing here?”

His companions’ eyebrows all rose in unison. Yeah, he should probably have warned them about the possibility of a hostile reception.

“Hawke would like to meet with Marethari.” He motioned toward the human.

Terath’s dark eyes narrowed. “Last time she was here, four of us died.”

Fenarel gave his scouting partner a flat look. “That wasn’t her doing and you know it.”

“Right.” Terath glared at Kazar. “It’s on the pariah _you_ left to join.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Kazar snapped and started back up the path. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the way into camp; they could hardly stop him.

Sure enough, the two elven men exchanged a glance and then disappeared off either side of the path. Whether to shadow them or run ahead to alert the camp, Kazar didn’t care.

Once the elves were out of sight, Varric said, “Well, _that_ was interesting. Is there something you want to tell us, Sparky?”

Kazar didn’t turn to look at them as he stomped his way up the path. “I may have… gotten into a massive argument with the Keeper before I left. That’s kind of a big no-no among the Dalish.”

Hawke gave a low whistle. “What about?”

“The clan. It’s… kind of a Dalish thing. You guys don’t need to worry about it.”

“Anything we can do to help?”

That made him pause, and, after a beat, he turned to regard Hawke. Her expression showed no sarcasm or falsehood.

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

“That I want to help? Of course.” She shrugged. “It’s pretty much what I do.”

It… couldn’t be as simple as that. Then again, he really had no idea what this Hawke woman actually _did_. As in, for a living.

He sighed. “If you really want to help,” he said. “Then you need to help me convince Merrill to give up on the mirror. She might actually listen to you.”

Hawke shook her head. “I’ve been trying. I’ve used every trick in my book, and, believe me, I’ve got a big book of tricks.”

“Can I see this book?” Aveline said, eyeing Hawke with a small smile. “Reading it might help me get an upper hand on you for once.”

“Not the point, Aveline,” Hawke said. “Anyway, if there’s anyone’s book of tricks you should read, it’s Varric’s.”

Said dwarf only smiled enigmatically. “And who ever said I would be foolish enough to write them down?”

It… helped, having banter like this. It eased his nerves over seeing the Keeper again. Because if anyone would be able to weather a storm of angry Dalish, it was Hawke and her companions.

His step fell lighter as he turned and headed back toward the camp. Past the ruins, around a cluster of rocks… the guards at the primary entrance were waiting for him expectantly, and nodded him through.

The camp hadn’t changed at all… which was a silly thought, because of course it hadn’t. Why would it change in a few weeks when it hadn’t for three _years_? There was the bonfire, and the Keeper’s _aravel_ , and Master Ilen’s workstation…

Marethari stepped forward to greet them, breaking out of a cluster of _hahren_ near the bonfire. “Welcome back, Hawke,” she said in that ponderous way of hers. “What returns you to our camp?” Her gaze, however, lingered on Kazar, an assessing eye running up and down his form as if to make sure he was still in one piece. Kazar wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or comforted by it.

“Mage problems,” Hawke said.

“Not Merrill, I hope?”

“Not more than the usual. As a matter of fact, I’m here at the behest of a different exile from your clan.”

The Keeper’s eyes immediately went to Kazar, filled with concern. He shook his head. “Not me. Arianni.”

“Ah.” It was more of a breath than an actual sound.

“Not sure whether you’re up on the gossip, but she’s got a half-human son,” Hawke said. “A son who is a mage. He’s apparently gotten himself stuck asleep somehow and the Templars have no idea why or how to wake him up. The Circle mages aren’t much help either, so we were wondering if you knew any way to help the sprout. Being as you are all versed in ancient magics and whatnot.”

Marethari hummed. “It is true that I may know of a ritual that might aid you… but it is not our custom to extend such magic to those who have turned from the Way.”

“But she is one of your people,” Hawke said, that conviction of hers oozing out of her voice. “We know you still care about every member of your clan, no matter what they’ve done.”

And, once again, Marethari’s eyes flickered to Kazar, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. Slowly, she smiled warmly and nodded. “That, I do.”

“Keeper…”

She raised a hand and turned back to Hawke. “I will help Arianni’s son as best as I am able. It will not be easy, however. To view the dreams of one gifted with magic, one must join them in the Beyond. Only there may you confront what might be ailing them.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “Your apprentice mentioned something like that.” She jerked her thumb at Kazar.

“Ah, of course.” Marethari nodded to him. “You may find the experience similar to the ritual used during your Fade-walk, _da’len_.”

Hawke’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. Kazar shifted under her stare.

Marethari, of course, noticed. “Now then. Come, _da’len_ , to help me gather the supplies for the spell.”

Kazar was happy to escape from the combined scrutiny of Hawke and Aveline (Varric’s gaze was not the least bit scrutinizing, and how was that somehow _worse_?).

Marethari headed toward her _aravel_. As she ducked inside, she said, “You have not told them.” It was not a question.

“Hawke is a Templar sympathizer.” Kazar replied, following her in.

And then Marethari turned that look upon him, and what had seemed an entirely reasonable argument ten minutes ago was somehow turned into the misled ramblings of a naïve child.

“Hawke is a good woman, _da’len_.”

“Maybe so. But that doesn’t change the fact that she habitually turns apostates into the Circle.”

“And yet, she has not done so with Merrill.”

“Yeah, well. Merrill’s just a special case. As usual.” Kazar kicked at the _aravel_ ’s back wheel, even as Marethari opened a hatch in the back of her wagon and began digging through it.

The silence stretched out for a few long minutes while Marethari passed off bundles of herbs, ink, and candles to him. He became increasingly aware of the fact that, last time he’d seen her, he’d kind of blamed her of everything wrong with the clan and then stormed off.

Even now, he wasn’t sure how much of that had been anger and how much he had actually meant.

“Do you remember, _da’len_ ,” the Keeper said gently, breaking the silence, “what I said to you of Meila shortly after you arrived here?”

Kazar tried to recall… but his memory was far more dedicated to smacking him upside the head with all his stupid past mistakes. “Not really, no.”

“I said to you that Meila Mahariel had a shell, and how good it was to see her emerge from it.” She straightened from her digging and pinned Kazar with a tired, sad old stare. “In the intervening time, I have observed that you have a shell as well.”

He snorted incredulously. “No, I’m pretty sure what I have is the exact opposite of that. Everyone knows what I’m feeling, if only because frothing rages are pretty damn hard to miss.”

“A different kind of defense, true… but it is still a defense, child.”

He shook his head, not sure where she was going with this.

“I have observed, _da’len_ , that you are very slow to trust, and quick to retract it again when you feel threatened. There have been times when I wondered whether even I hold your trust.”

“Of course you do!” he blurted, stunned that she would even _think_ that. “You saved me! You took me into your clan when you had every reason not to!”

“And yet, when one of my failings threatened Mahariel…” She let it hang, and he couldn’t deny the implication.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. “For those things I said.”

“But you meant them.”

He swallowed. “I did.”

She stepped forward, setting a cool hand on his shoulder. “I am not angry with you, _da’len_. Merely saddened that your path has diverged so soon after meeting ours.”

“Diverged for the sake of the clan.” He pulled away, because he _did_ mean what he’d said. “I promise, I’m going to bring Merrill back. And then, we’ll be able to leave this awful place. No more Varterral, or demons up on the hill, and whatever else is affecting everything…”

That, for the first time, seemed to alarm her. “Else?”

“The other day, one of the mages down in Kirkwall said something. About how there’s something about Kirkwall… something that’s corrupting everything.” He paused, seeing her expression fall. “That’s… not true, is it?”

“I am afraid that it is.” She turned away and gently closed the compartment she had been rifling through. “I have sensed… a presence. Ancient and dark. It sleeps, for now… and I fear to think what might happen were it to awaken.”

“What is it?”

“I do not know.”

And that, more than anything, profoundly terrified Kazar. An ancient magic that Marethari did not know?

She continued, “It is one of the reasons I cannot leave Merrill where she is. Were this any other city, I would be happy to trust her to the hands of someone as capable as Hawke. However, this, I cannot leave her to.” The Keeper’s eyes were sad, almost pleading. “I must ask that you watch out for her, _da’len_ , but that you also watch out for yourself. You are as at risk as Merrill is.”

“No,” he said. “I’m worse.”

Again, Marethari reached out go rest a hand on his shoulder and this time Kazar didn’t shake her off. “You are strong, _da’len_. If you keep your resolve and learn to trust those around you, you will prevail.”

“Again with the trust thing…”

“ _Vir Adahlen_.”

He took a breath. “Together we are stronger than one.”

“Meant to indicate the combined strength of the People, true… but I believe that you will agree that even small, diverse groups, when working together, can accomplish great things.”

Like how three humans, three elves, and two dwarves stopped a Blight.

Kazar nodded and fell quiet. Marethari smiled and headed out of the _aravel_. Kazar followed at a slower rate.

She headed toward Master Ilen’s station, but Kazar stopped, noticing a familiar head of beaded red hair talking to Hawke. It released something coiled up inside of him to see Meila up and about, but something else tightened as he noticed the change in her silhouette.

When Kazar had first met the Dalish elf back in Ostagar, she had been standing straight and proud, defying the humans around her to think her weak despite her smaller size and, oh yeah, the fact that one of her legs had been torn open by a boar and that she also had the darkspawn Taint inside her. Couldn’t be weak in front of _shemlen_.

Now, however, she leaned heavily on a crutch tucked under one arm. Her bad leg was splinted and dangling uselessly between her functioning leg and the crutch. The crutch itself was a little rough yet—obviously still in progress—but looked to be strong and stable. Kazar would have bet his savings that it was ironwood. Kazar had to fight back a wave of bitterness that this had happened to her, hands down the strongest and most independent person he had ever met ( _after myself_ , whispered his demon half, but he waved that away).

He approached slowly, making as little noise on the packed earth as possible, but Meila was, as ever, uncannily aware of her surroundings. She turned as he drew up behind her.

“ _Da’lethallin_ , are you all right?”

“Am _I_ …” Okay that was more of a squeak than actual words. He swallowed and tried again. “Am _I_ all right? How can you ask if _I’m_ all right?! What about _you_?”

From up close, she looked thin and had dark circles under her eyes. “I have been safe in camp.” She offered him a quirk of the lips, nearly a smile, and that settled his nerves. “Marethari would not let harm come to me. It is _you_ who left the security of the clan.” Her smile dropped. “Is it true? You left to bring Merrill back?”

“I have to. If I don’t, the clan dies.”

“That is reasoning worthy of a future Keeper, even if the methods may be a bit unconventional.”

“I’m a flat-ear,” he snorted. “I’m allowed to break tradition.”

She pulled him into a hug, and he found himself allowing it. He’d… missed her. Kind of a lot, actually. Was this what it was like to have a sister?

“Almost brings a tear to the eye, doesn’t it?” Varric’s voice said, and Kazar pulled back awkwardly.

The three of them were watching unashamedly. Hawke, in particular, had her hands on her hips and regarded Kazar with an expectant expression.

Trust them, Marethari had said. With a mental sigh. Kazar turned to face them. “I can explain.”

“Oh, please do,” Hawke said. “See, with the teams I’ve been on, I have a policy of not withholding mission-critical information, but maybe it works differently with you.”

“It was blood magic, all right?”

That was enough to make her pause, at least.

“A friend of mine knew this blood magic ritual that could send mages into particular spots in the Fade. We used it twice to defeat demons who had attached themselves to certain mages during the Blight. ”

“Now hold on,” Varric said. “Are you saying that you know a cure for abominations?” Aveline’s brows lowered and Hawke’s eyes widened.

“It’s not a cure,” he said quickly. “It only worked completely for one of them, and that was under very specific circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Aveline asked.

“He wasn’t a complete abomination yet. The demon had been holding back for some reason. This meant he was still whole in the Fade, and I was able to… chase the demon off.”

Yeah, ‘chase’ was a generous term for what had really happened.

“What happened,” Hawke said slowly, “to the one that didn’t work?”

Meila’s presence was steady at his back. “He was too far gone to fix. The demon got chased out, but… the mage stayed broken. Tainted by parts of the demon that had become too entwined with him to separate.” He found himself staring at his toes. “It’s the insidious thing about abominations, how the demon mixes with the mage, becoming one being with all the strengths and weaknesses of both. Once they’re one… they can never really be two again.”

Hawke was exchanging looks with her companions, something like sadness in her eyes. Then, she sighed and rolled her eyes upward. “Well, a woman can hope.”

Varric patted her on the back. “We’ll find a way, Hawke.” There was something going on that Kazar wasn’t aware of, but it seemed far too private for him to pry, even if he’d wanted to.

Aveline was the first to turn her attention back to him. “So. Your friend used blood magic on you, and you did not wish us to know. That is why you did not tell us about this ritual.”

“Uh… not exactly.” He glanced at Meila. She watched him guardedly, and he knew she would jump in if this went badly. “Yeah, part of it is that it was blood magic, and that is just an all-over terrible idea, especially if there’s an alternative. The other part is that…” Kazar swallowed. “…I could kind of perform it? If it came to that? And I’d really, really rather not have that temptation on the table.”

He could see Hawke subtly shifting her stance to be ready to attack. “You’re a blood mage.”

“Reformed.” Both Hawke and Aveline watched him as one would a wild animal. Varric, on the other hand, was nodding to himself. Figures. “I haven’t used it since the Blight but… once you’ve used it, it just kind of… sticks. This heavy thing in your soul.”

Aveline tilted her head in thought. “That is why you followed Merrill to Kirkwall. Because you saw yourself in her.”

He nodded, relieved that one of them understood, at least. “No one knows better than me what she’s going through. If I can just stop her from making the same mistakes I did…” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Of course, I didn’t factor in how ridiculously stubborn Dalish elves are.”

“It is not a fault, _da’lethallin_ ,” Meila said, sounding amused.

“Huh.” Hawke ran a hand through her hair. “Well, I’m not going to turn down the extra help knocking some sense into Merrill… but you’re sure you won’t buckle and give into temptation?”

It was an opening, and he was happy to take it. “I’ve resisted for three years, and a change in scenery isn’t going to change that.” He smirked. “Like I said, Dalish elves are ridiculously stubborn.”

o-o-o-o

Meila wanted to join them on their journey to Kirkwall, but a disapproving word from the Keeper, citing Meila’s need to rest and recover, made her reluctantly concede. She obviously wasn’t happy about it, her jaw a hard line as she joined the rest of the clan in bidding the Keeper safe journey.

Marethari brought a handful of hunters with her. Kazar avoided the Dalish escort, well aware of the wary glances they kept sending his way. Like him, they didn’t seem sure of where he stood in the clan either.

As such, the group got quite a few stares as they entered the city, what with the disconcerting number of well-armed elves. Kazar was convinced that Hawke brought them in through a Hightown entrance on purpose, just to unsettle people, and the thought made him stifle laughter into his sleeve. When Varric shared a wink with him, he knew his assumption wasn’t far off.

Their reception in the alienage was, of course, much warmer. The city elves recognized the _vallaslin_ of the Dalish and seemed to instinctively know just who the old woman walking next to Hawke was. Kazar saw a number of elves bow their heads reverently, and it filled him with Pride to be at her shoulder.

Merrill was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

_Hahren_ Esterel and Arianni met them under the branches of the _vhenedahl_.

“Welcome, Keeper,” said the _hahren_. “You honor us with your presence.”

“Thank you for coming, Keeper,” Arianni added.

“Of course, child,” Marethari said, her slow, lyrical voice carrying around the central square. “I know a way to aid your son, Arianni. Take my First and clear a space in your home. His childhood possessions there will anchor him for what needs to be done.”

Arianni nodded and turned to head into her home near the stairs. Kazar fell into step behind her. He did a few breathing exercises to calm the continuing swell of Pride over the fact that Marethari still referred to him as her First.

Arianni’s home was simple, as all Alienage homes were. Hers were decorated with delicately carved wooden furniture, and herbal candles, and hangings that Kazar recognized as depictions of the Creators. She had certainly left the Dalish… but lost to the Way? Most certainly not.

He helped her move her furniture, clearing a space on the floor. Marethari hadn’t given him much by way of instruction, but he was surprised to find that he could pretty much guess where all the pieces went, just by what they were using and his past experience with her old magics. It was a far cry from being able to perform such things himself, but he was caught off guard by the evidence that he _had_ learned a thing or two about Dalish magic in his time with the clan.

“Thank you for doing this,” Arianni said as they moved her table aside. “I know you owe my son and myself nothing.”

“Nah, you warned me about the Templar raid. This is the least I can do.”

Arianni smiled, and when he directed her to grab a bowl, she did so. Meanwhile, he pulled the herbs Marethari had given him out of his bag.

“Hawke explained what has happened,” she said. “That he has fallen into a long nightmare.”

“Yeah. It happens, sometimes, with mages. Don’t worry… the fact that he hasn’t woken up and started spitting demonic sparks is a good sign. He’ll be fine.”

“And if there is anyone who can save him, it will be Hawke.”

She delved into a chest and took out a bundle of simple wooden toys… a carved horse, a pair of soldiers… a dragon that, when you moved it around, flapped its wings. She set them carefully on the table.

Kazar said, “Everyone here puts a lot of stock in her capabilities, don’t they?”

She nodded. “She has earned it.” She turned to him. “She saved my son once before, when he ran afoul of slavers a few years back.”

“Slavers? _Here_?”

“There were.” Arianni fixed him with a steady look. “Hawke has made a world of difference to this city. Before she arrived, it was a terrifying place to raise my son, with the gangs and the criminals showing no fear of attacking an elf in broad daylight. But now... they hide in the dark corners, whispering to themselves about how Hawke will come for them like a vengeful spirit in the night.”

Kazar snorted, because he could kind of imagine that happening.

“That is why, whatever Hawke deems necessary to save my Feynriel, I will do. I trust her.”

Kazar nodded and finished setting up.

Marethari entered a few minutes later. Then, at a more subdued pace, Hawke followed, with Aveline and Varric still at her heels. She seemed deep in thought, and Kazar wondered what had happened.

Hawke glanced up at him. “You remember how you said you were good at resisting temptation?”

“Yeah?”

“You ready to put your money where your mouth is?”

“I’m not really sure what you mean.”

“The Keeper said this ritual can take up to four people. The way I figure it, who better to show us how it works than someone who’s done it before?”

“…you’d trust a blood mage? In the Fade?”

She shrugged. “If you’re as in control as you say, sure.” She grinned, flashing her teeth. “Of course, if it turns out you’re not so trustworthy, we’ll just cut you into tiny pieces and give it to the demons in offering.”

That was… surprisingly comforting. Kazar glanced at Marethari, who said, “Be mindful, child. The Beyond has a way of revealing us as we truly are.”

He nodded, understanding her warning. Still, if the world seemed so set on having him work with this woman…

“Sure.”


End file.
